One Jump Ahead of the Storm
by SalemsChild
Summary: Dean's reputation as a skirt chaser gets the boys into serious trouble when the woman turns out to be more than even Dean can handle. Bit of a slow start but I promise LOTS and LOTS of Winchester whumpage and angst.
1. Hotties, Hormones and the Heimlich

**Disclaimer:** As much as it pains me to admit this, I have absolutely no claim to Sam, Dean, John or anything within the Supernatural realm. All characters not familiar to the Supernatural series are my own creation. This has been a labor of love, only. No profit is being made. This is my very first fanfiction. With that said, I want to extend my sincere and heartfelt thanks to Eric Kripke, Eric Clapton, Jack Bruce, Ginger Baker, Gail Collins and Felix Pappalardi. No infringement or disrespect was intended by my use of the products of their collective genius as the inspirations behind my story. I can only hope this story has even half the quality of the bodies of work from which I drew my inspiration.

**Setting:** Between the Season 1 finale and the Season 2 opener. Slightly AU since my John was killed in the car crash.

**A/N: **I was listening to Cream's album, "Disreali Gears", when the song "Strange Brew" came on. It just seemed like a good basis for a Supernatural story and, well, the story just spun out of control from there. Also, the town of Holstein, Iowa _does_ exist. My description of the area is purely from my imagination. I'm certain it's a lovely little town and if I offend anyone, I'm sorry. I just needed a small-town-America setting and the name gave me a teensy-bit of humor to play with.

**Summary:** Dean's reputation as a skirt chaser gets the boys into serious trouble when the woman turns out to be more than even Dean can handle. Bit of a slow start but I promise LOTS and LOTS of Winchester whumpage and angst.

**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

**Chapter 1: Hotties, Hormones and the Heimlich**

The previous hunt had left both Sam and Dean tired. In fact, it wasn't just any kind of tired, but the kind of mind-numbing exhaustion that screamed through every cell of their bodies and had reduced the conversation during the drive to near-monosyllabic grunts. As it turned out, the pissed off entity that had seemed so straight-forward in theory, was nothing of the sort. It had required a good deal of creative thinking and an even more creative extermination method before finally succumbing to the experienced, young hunters. The whole ordeal had left the two boys completely drained and more than just a little scuffed up.

As the jet black, classic Impala cruised past the sign that read, "Welcome to Holstein, Iowa – Population 1449," Dean spotted a small diner and adjoining motel off to the right side of the road. The car slowed and Dean guided it toward the diner, making two full, searching, circuits of the parking lot before allowing it to purr to a stop in a spot somewhat removed from the other cars. Noticing that the chosen spot appeared to be ninety miles from the entrance to the diner, Sam shot an indignant glance towards Dean, followed quickly by a stifled snort to ensure the desired meaning struck home.

"What?" Dean questioned, irritation dripping from his voice.

"It's just that I don't get you, Dean," Sam explained. "It doesn't seem to bother you that we almost got our asses kicked by some bad-ass entity back in Fillmore, that it managed to drop-kick you around that house, not once, but _three_ times, and I've got more scratches on me than Churchill Downs on race day. And, yet, you'll drive around a parking lot for 20 minutes and park nine million miles from the entrance just so a car doesn't get scratched."

"_**A**_ car, Sammy?" Dean intoned indignantly as he gently began caressing the dark vinyl dashboard of the Impala. "This is not just _**a**_ car…this is a one-hundred percent, all-American, Detroit-fabricated, classic _work of art_. As such, she needs to be treated tenderly…like a good woman. You can't blame a guy for watching out for his girl."

Sam shook his head and repeated, "Your girl…", another derisive snort escaping from him. As he shoved the passenger door open he muttered resolutely, "Whatever, dude." and strode off in the direction of the diner.

Despite the pleasure Dean derived from hassling his younger brother, the injuries Sam had received in their latest battle had produced a slightly stilted and awkward movement in the younger man as he lurched ahead of Dean and he made a mental note to lay off of Sam for a while…but just a little while.

The older brother caught up with his younger sibling as he reached the door to the diner and slid quietly in step behind him. Noting a small, private booth near one end of the dining area, the boys unobtrusively seated themselves. A fresh-faced, country-girl of a waitress appeared at their table, menus in hand, and swiftly deposited them in front of the two men.

"You boys get settled in and I'll be back right quick to take care of you," she drawled out in her Mid-Western accent.

Since the moment the waitress had appeared, Dean's eyes had been firmly planted on her every movement, clearly appreciating the view. As she turned and glided away, Dean cooed out, "Oh, I wish you _would_ take care of me," as he almost tumbled from the booth in his effort to watch her retreating backside. The whole scene had not gone unnoticed by the younger sibling.

"Do you think you could give 'Little Dean' a break for once?" Sam queried. "We're supposed to be taking some time off…you know, re-grouping a bit."

"Yeah, groping…," Dean replied distractedly as his eyes scanned the diner for the return of their waitress, "…I mean…re-grouping."

"Look, Dean," Sam explained rather annoyed, "after this last gig I just feel like we need some down-time. We've been ridden pretty hard."

"Hmmm…," Dean purred as he watched the waitress working her tables across the room, "I sure wouldn't mind making good on that visual."

"You are _such_ a pervert!"

"Bitch."

"Jerk," Sam shot back just as the waitress reappeared at their table.

"Hi. My name's Rachel and I'll be taking care of you boys today."

Sam saw Dean's eyebrow arch leeringly and quickly shot him a glance that screamed, 'would you just behave long enough that we don't get thrown out before we get a decent meal?'

Although Dean ached to follow through, just to take a swipe at Sam, he allowed the comment he was forming in his mind to trickle away unexpressed as he saw fatigue taking hold and etching a haggard look into his little brother. Oh, well, he'd get under Sam's skin some other time.

"So, what'll you boys have?" Rachel inquired.

The two hunters placed their respective orders and sank back into the relative comfort of the softly padded seats. Although greasy-spoon, country diners like the one they were seated in are infamously slow in churning out their cholesterol-laden orders, Sam and Dean were pleasantly surprised to find Rachel placing their food in front of them in short order.

"You boys look like something the cat dragged in," the pretty waitress remarked. "Figured a piping hot meal would be just what the doctor ordered, so I had Eldon put a rush on your orders. Enjoy!"

With a final wink at Dean, Rachel turned on her heel and headed across the diner to make certain her other customers weren't neglected.

Sam had seen Rachel's wink and just stared dumbfounded at Dean with a 'what the hell?' look on his face. Sam exhaled heavily and just shook his head.

"What? What did I do?" Dean protested.

"Shut up and eat," was all Sam said.

* * *

There were only a few morsels of the filling, country meal left to consume when the door to the diner pulled open and a lanky, red-headed woman breezed in. Dean couldn't ever recall seeing a woman that had so captivated him at first sight, and unconsciously gulped in air. 

Although he suddenly found himself coughing roughly as the sudden intake of air caused the piece of steak he'd been chewing to ricochet around his throat, threatening to cut off his airway, he was unable to pry his eyes from the sight of the woman who was now seated at the diner's counter.

She was dressed in a short skirt, her long, shapely, tanned legs running from here to there…and back again. The electric blue camisole she wore, although not skin tight, held close to every voluptuous curve and the thin straps lightly caressed the bronzed skin of her shoulders. The plunging neckline was accentuated by a gold broad-link necklace inset with stones the same blue as her camisole.

Dean realized the way the shirt clung to her figure that he probably didn't need to work too hard to imagine what the landscape was like underneath it, but it was work he would gladly do. Boy, would he be glad to do it!

Sam had been absently staring out the diner's window, but when he heard the abrupt sounds of his older brother choking, he turned quickly toward Dean, and with panic edging into his voice, he blurted out, "Dean! Are you ok!" Before Dean could respond, Sam was out of the booth and desperately trying to position himself to perform the Heimlich. After facing down all manner of "nasties" together, supernatural or otherwise, Sam sure as hell wasn't going to lose his brother to an errant piece of steak.

"Dean!"

Dean was still unable to tear his eyes away from the crimson-haired beauty that was perched on the swiveling stool at the diner's counter.

"Huh? Wha-…I…uh…yeah…yeah, I'm alright. Just a little too much pepper, I guess."

Dean had hoped the excuse didn't sound as lame to Sam as it did to his own ears.

Sam relaxed, allowing a sigh to escape, and returned quickly to his seat, turning his head to follow Dean's gaze.

"God, Dean! I thought you were dying on me. But I suppose you'd have been able to eat right if you had actually been thinking with your upstairs brain, for once," Sam complained. "I swear if you don't knock this shit off, Dean, I'm gonna choke you myself."

The older hunter finally broke away from the site of the woman seated at the counter and returned his gaze to his little brother.

"Sammy, you said we needed a little down-time, right?" he reminded his sibling. "Why don't we do just that? You can curl up at the motel with one of your 'Oprah books'…" and motioning with his head towards the awe-inspiring red-head, Dean finished with, "and I can see if that little country girl over there would like to save a horse and…"

"Don't...," Sam interrupted. "Don't even finish that statement. It's just wrong…on so many levels."

Dean copped one of his patented innocent choirboy looks and said, "I was only going to say ride in my classic car. Really. Honest."

Sam's sarcastic, "Uh huh" was where they both allowed the conversation to end.


	2. Get a Room

**Disclaimer: **As noted in Chapter 1.

****

**_From the previous chapter:_**

_"Sammy, you said we needed a little down-time, right?" he reminded his sibling. "Why don't we do just that? You can curl up at the motel with one of your 'Oprah books'…" and motioning with his head towards the awe-inspiring red-head, Dean finished with, "and I can see if that little country girl over there would like to save a horse and…"_

_"Don't...," Sam interrupted. "Don't even finish that statement. It's just wrong…on so many levels."_

_Dean copped one of his patented innocent choirboy looks and said, "I was only going to say ride in my classic car. Really. Honest."_

_Sam's sarcastic, "Uh huh" was where they both allowed the conversation to end._

**Chapter 2: Get a room**

As much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, Dean had been right.

The two brothers were as close as brothers could be, but when it came to their chosen forms of rest and relaxation, they were polar opposites. Had Sam insisted that Dean spend his evening in the motel room, Dean would have ended up going stir crazy, being even more obnoxious than usual and neither one of them would have gotten any rest.

No, Dean would only relax if he was given the freedom to try working his charms on the female population of Holstein. Most likely, the red-haired bombshell that was still seated at the diner's counter would be Dean's "flavor of the week".

So it was that Sam decided to leave Dean to pay for their meals and chat up the ladies while he walked to the motel next door and got them a room. He'd told Dean he'd return to the diner when he was done, let Dean know what their room number was and give him the spare key. Once Dean started working a room full of women there was no telling when he'd finally be calling it a night.

The younger boy had always hated running the credit card scams that seemed to be a constant necessity in their nomadic lives, but a quick check of the pitifully few dollars in Sam's pocket and it was blatantly obvious that he wasn't going to have any choice.

As he nervously waited for the card to clear and the clerk to retrieve their room keys, Sam pondered the conundrum that was Dean Winchester. Somewhere Mr. Mullet Rock, himself, had heard and remembered the Big & Rich song, "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy" and managed to make use of it in his own twisted way.

_Then again, leave it to Dean to remember songs with sexual content…Country & Western, or not._

The hotel clerk's cheerful voice pulled Sam from his thoughts.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Townsend. I hope you enjoy your stay with us," the elderly man stated with a wide, genuine grin. "You know, my wife, Mabel's the morning cook over at the diner…makes a pretty mean apple turnover. Best ones in the tri-county area…even won first place at the Iowa State Fair three years runnin'. You won't want to miss 'em while you're here."

Sam looked up with his appreciative and lop-sided grin. "Uh, thanks. I'll have to keep that in mind."

Sam pocketed the fraudulent credit card and exited the motel office, heading back in the direction of the diner. He was still silently cursing Dean for parking the Impala so far from the adjoining buildings. Now that Dean was primed for some heavy duty skirt-chasing, Sam knew he'd be the one reduced to lugging all their heavy gear from the Impala's trunk and dragging it across the expansive parking lot and into their room.

* * *

By the time the young hunter had finished putting their stuff in the room and made it back to the diner, Dean had settled up their bill and was flirting with yet another young beauty, this time a brunette with a soft spattering of freckles across her cheeks.

She was leaning towards Dean with her elbows resting lightly on the counter. It was clearly apparent that she was no match for Dean's charisma and had completely fallen under his spell.

Still seething slightly from having to lug all of their stuff to the room by himself, Sam decided to take the opportunity to make life just a bit more difficult for his big bro.

"Hey, Dean, it's almost eight o'clock. Did you remember to take the medicine the doctor prescribed for that nasty rash of yours?"

The smitten look worn by the pretty cashier disappeared quickly as she straightened up. In fact, Dean could have sworn she'd even taken a step or two backwards.

"Wha-…no…you're not gonna believe…he's not serious…I don't really…," Dean stammered on, trying to salvage his shot at some action this evening.

But Sam's comment had imparted irreparable damage to Dean's smooth approach and even a superfluous attempt at his innocent look didn't buy Dean any points with the, now, all-business cashier.

"If you'll excuse me, I have other customers, please," the brunette huffed.

Dean turned to find Sam leaning against a nearby wall with a look of smug amusement on his face.

"Dude, what's with you? That was low…even for you, Sammy," Dean groused.

Sam didn't bother to respond but just wallowed deeper into his amusement at Dean's misfortune.

"Ok. I got us a room," Sam began. "Here's the spare key. We're in room 15. I'm going back to the room and relax…maybe even turn in a little early."

"Gotcha, grandma. Want me to pick up some Geritol for you while I'm out?"

Sam shot him a quick frown and finished up with, "Just don't go doing anything that's gonna get you arrested. We don't have enough cash to bail you out."

With that Sam turned and left his older brother to whatever form of debauchery his overactive libido could muster.

* * *

As Sam's lanky frame departed through the diner's entrance and started across the lot towards the motel, Dean turned and began scanning the small eatery. Realizing that all hopes for a night's entertainment with the brunette had been slaughtered by Sam's subterfuge, Dean knew it was better to cut his losses and start trolling friendlier waters for his 'catch of the day'.

His gaze once again settled on the red-head that had so captivated him just a short time before. With a determined swagger and his "game-face" firmly in place, the young hunter made for the empty stool at the counter next to his prey.

Dean was settling onto the seat with his usual degree of suave confidence and had prepared to light up the blonde's life with his ample charm and oh-so-clever icebreaker when the dewy-skinned beauty turned, faced Dean and answered his gaze with a thousand-watt smile.

It was at that moment that Dean realized he'd been wrong about the red-head…_very _wrong. She wasn't pretty…far from it, actually. She was, in fact, the most alluring and exquisite woman…no, make that goddess…he'd ever laid eyes on.

The snappy pick-up line that had been perched on the young man's lips got stuck somewhere between his testosterone level and his tongue and Dean blurted out only one word…

"Blue!"

With a tilt of her head the woman flashed Dean a confused look and giggled out, "What?"

Dean flushed instantly and ended up clumsily plopping down on his stool. Embarrassed, he quickly turned his head away and silently mouthed,

_"Blue? What the hell?"_

His mind was reeling and he knew he better make a quick recovery or the gorgeous woman to his right would run, screaming, into the hills figuring she was being hit on by some muscle-bound Neanderthal with an IQ of twelve.

"Umm…blue…you're wearing blue. It's my favorite color." Dean sputtered.

_Oh, Lord, what's wrong with me? Blue's my favorite color? God! How much lamer can you get? Get your head in the game Winchester or you're never going to get to first down, never mind into the end zone._

The woman giggled again and followed up with, "You're funny. Are you this smooth with all of the girls?"

Dean could have died a thousand deaths right there.

_Great, I'm going for ruggedly-handsome-and-oh-so-desirable-Marlboro-Man and what's actually coming out is more like Pee-Wee-Herman-goes-pimping._

Dean took a deep breath and, noting the kind amusement in her eyes, decided that maybe, just this once, looking like an idiot just might pay off.

He never liked admitting being less than perfect, especially when it came to his uncanny ability to charm women, but there was just something about the way this woman looked at him that tore down his carefully crafted walls of machismo.

"Yeah…pretty slick, huh? Blue's my favorite color…ha!"

"Well, if it's any consolation, blue's my favorite color, too…especially electric blue." As she presented her delicate hand towards Dean she said, "My name's Marissa…Marissa Timkis."

Dean gently enveloped her hand in his, her warm touch inciting a pulse of tingling anticipation that coursed through Dean with the intensity of lightning.

"Dean…my name's Dean." Almost as a second thought he added, "Townsend…Dean Townsend."

"Well, Dean, somehow you and that leather jacket don't strike me as being the type to particularly enjoy the gingham-checked, country diner atmosphere. What do you say we find a place a bit more suited to our styles? I think I know just the place."

As Sam lazily drifted across the parking lot towards the motel, he realized he was just plain worn out. Lately, it seemed one gig would end and the boys wouldn't even have the time to take a breath before they heard of someone needing their help or they received text messages from their MIA father containing mysterious coordinates and were taking off again to face yet some other incarnation of evil.

Sam resented the life their father had dragged them into and it caused him to have a real problem dealing with John. He understood the grief his Dad carried with him after Mary had died so horribly. Hell, he'd been through it himself when Jessica suffered the same fate.

At the same time, that grief and the burning desire for revenge that accompanied it, just didn't justify dragging two small boys around the country, raising them like soldiers and being more like their drill instructor than their Dad. Sam and Dean rarely ever argued for real, but when they did it was almost invariably over their Dad.

The hunt for the last entity had been just one of those occasions when Dean and Sam argued. Dean, true to form, was more than willing to blindly accept whatever task and destination their father had set out for them.

But Sam had balked. Even though Dean knew it, he would never admit it to himself and especially not to their father, that both he and Sam were long overdue for some R&R. Sam, on the other hand, was determined to get the needed time off whether that meant defying their ex-Marine father, or not.

The two equally stubborn brothers butted heads over the issue but, in the end, Dean had convinced his little brother they should complete this one last job. Their research had shown the job should be short, sweet and to the point and then they could take it easy.

Yeah, right, like anything in the Winchester's universe ever flowed along the same path that logic and reason did. The entity had run rough-shod over the boys more than once during the hunt and by the time they had successfully banished it permanently, both of them had more than a few new battle scars with which to tell their tale.

That's how it had come to pass that the Winchester boys had ended up in Holstein, Iowa. In exchange for agreeing to follow Dad's coordinates, Sam had forced Dean to agree to taking two weeks off from chasing demons, ghosts, spirits, entities or whatever other form of evil chose to announce its presence to the world.

As an added bonus, Sam had managed to finagle Dean into allowing him the honor of choosing their vacation spot…an act he completed by opening a road atlas to a random page and blindly pointing to an equally random spot on the map.

"Holstein, Iowa?" Dean had flopped back into his chair dejectedly. He had been hoping for a place with some real action. Now he was beginning to wish he'd never agreed to let Sam pick their vacation destination. Damn it, those frickin' puppy dog eyes of Sam's got Dean into more trouble than he'd like to admit.

Just when it was that Sam had discovered he could manipulate Dean with nothing more than a simple facial expression, Dean didn't know. What he did know, though, was that once Sam plastered that look on his face there was absolutely no way Dean could bring himself to deny him.

"What the hell is there to do in Holstein, Iowa? We're not going…no way…what kind of whack-job town is it, anyway, that they named it after a cow?"

"Yes…we _are_ going. I'm holding you to your promise." Sam was standing next to Dean with his arms crossed authoritatively over his chest; his lanky form towering over Dean's seated form. He wasn't about to budge on this one.

"Look, it may not be Vegas…" Sam began, which elicited a 'you-ain't-kidding' grunt from the older hunter, "…but the purpose is for us to relax, not wear ourselves down even more by staying out all night. Can you just do this…for me?"

Dean had already had his mouth open to continue protesting when Sam had slipped in that last short, questioning plea.

"Arrgghh! Ok, you win," Dean acquiesced. "But I can tell you it's a good thing you went to Stanford to become a lawyer, because as a travel agent, Sammy, you suck."

Sam chuckled at the memory as he opened the door to their room and flicked the light switch to the 'On' position. Pushing the door shut behind him, he tossed the key down on the small table between the beds and began stripping the clothes from his upper body.

_Oh, man, it's going to feel good to get a long, hot shower._

He crossed the remaining distance to the bathroom, finished undressing and stepped into the warm embrace of the steaming shower.

He allowed the water to cascade over his sore, tired muscles and mentally took stock of the numerous bruises and wounds that were scattered over his entire body. Since it seemed they were never completely gone before the next batch was inflicted, he noted with some derision the various stages of healing of each wound.

The twenty minute shower had been just what the doctor ordered and, after slipping on a fresh T-shirt and some sweat pants, Sam unwound his long legs by stretching out on the bed with a self-satisfied sigh.

He fluffed the pillows a bit and reached for the TV remote that was situated on the small beside table. He surfed through several channels and finally settled on the screwball British comedy, "Monty Python and the Holy Grail".

As he watched the flickering images on the motel TV, his battle-weary body slowly began to relax. Soon his eyelids grew heavy and closed at last as he gave into the seductive powers of sleep.


	3. Rod's Roadhouse

**Chapter 3: Rod's Roadhouse**

Marissa had been right. She _had_ found a place more suited to Dean's liking. He'd known it the instant they'd driven up and he'd seen the somewhat seedy looking exterior and the large sign perched above the door emblazoned with "Rod's Roadhouse" in red neon lights. As they stepped into the establishment, the throbbing beat of rock music wafted through the air that hung thickly with cigarette smoke. Several lighted signs advertising various brands of booze were hanging on the wood paneled walls behind the bar. Elsewhere, the walls were littered with rock-n-roll memorabilia.

A burly, middle-aged man was situated behind the bar, wiping it down, while a well-endowed woman wearing a low-cut "Rod's Roadhouse" t-shirt and tight jeans skittered back and forth waiting tables. People clustered in small groups throughout the room, each group enjoying its own particular stage of intoxication. A smattering of people clogged the dance floor, gyrating drunkenly with the music. Prominently displayed in the middle of the room was a pool table, the unused cue sticks placed absently across the green felt-topped surface.

"It's not much to look at, but it's the best nightspot for miles around," Marissa explained. "They play only the classics here. None of that sappy crap they're trying to pull off as music now."

_Oh my God, I must have died on that last hunt and didn't know it and have gone to heaven. Beer, babes, billiards and the best music ever made. Yep…I'm dead…gotta be._

"So, you're into classic rock, huh?" Dean leaned casually up against the bar waiting patiently for the bartender to present two long-necks. "You just don't seem to be the classic rock type."

Marissa tossed her head back slightly and laughed.

"What? In order for a girl to enjoy classic rock she's got to be a biker-chick with homemade tattoos, green teeth and be tough enough to kick Arnold Schwarzenneger's ass?"

"I didn't mean…"

"I know you didn't, Dean. I was just saying that anyone can be mesmerized by the raw power of classic rock. Anyway, who wants to fit into some stereotype? I like to think I'm not always what I seem."

Their beers having been served, Dean and Marissa gravitated towards the pool table. A quick scan of the room had already shown Dean that there weren't likely going to be any takers for a quick hustle and, anyway, without Sam here to watch his back it would probably be safer not to.

Instead, he decided to continue his flirtatious exchange with his date by teasingly challenging her to a game of pool.

She had blushed at the challenge, an event that, in Dean's eyes, had somehow exponentially increased the woman's magnetism, and then admitted that she hadn't really ever played pool before.

"That's alright. I'll teach you. Bring that cue stick over here while I rack the balls."

Finishing up, he replaced the rack on its hook and Dean returned to the end of the table. He stepped behind her, wrapped his arms gently over top of hers as she held the cue stick and assisted her with the break. The brightly colored balls scattered wildly over the table's surface as the pair waited to see where each would come to rest.

As soon as Dean had embraced Marissa for the break, a shiver had coursed through him. It had been small and imperceptible to anyone other than Dean, but it had been there just the same.

He'd never been so attracted to a woman before and the physical manifestations of that attraction were becoming almost more than Dean could bear. Dean stepped back and took in a gulp of air.

Marissa looked back over her shoulder at Dean, clearly proud of her first shot. Dean smiled weakly and took a healthy swig from his beer. In the background, he could hear the psychedelically energized guitar licks of Cream's song, "Strange Brew".

_ Strange Brew…kill what's inside of you…_

_ She's a witch of trouble in electric blue,_

_ in her own mad mind she's in love with you…_

_ with you…_

Marissa's eyes sparkled as the music reached her ears. "Oh…straight off the Disreali Gears album. What a great album. When it comes to blues guitar, Clapton is a god."

Dean gazed even more appreciatively at Marissa and soaked in her wide-eyed enthusiasm for his favored form of music. Sam never seemed to understand Dean's fascination with classic rock, but Marissa got it. She understood.

"I hear ya," Dean agreed. "Only wish I could have been there back in '66 when Clapton and Hendrix jammed together. Now that would have been something to see."

_ …She's some kind of demon messing in the glue…_

_ If you don't watch out it'll stick to you…_

_ to you…_

Dean had taken another swallow of his beer and set the bottle back on the edge of the pool table when Marissa took his hand in hers. While she entwined the fingers of Dean's right hand with the delicate fingers of her left hand, she reached up and gently cupped the angle of Dean's jaw with her right hand.

Her index finger traced down the contour of his jaw and tenderly flirted with his full lips. She allowed her hand to settle on Dean's muscular chest and leaned in, capturing Dean in a long, sensuous kiss.

Dean once again felt a surge of desire that threatened to overwhelm his normally cool demeanor. He was becoming lightheaded and he could feel a strange, yet subtle, trembling in the pit of his stomach.

Although he had initially been angry with Sam for bringing them here, he was now thinking he'd have to remember to thank him.

"Dean, I know we just got here, but I need to go back to my place…we need to go back to my place."

As she pulled away, the hand that had been entwined with Dean's slowly slid away and the resultant destruction of the physical connection left Dean with an aching loss…a loss he wasn't willing to let linger.

Without a word, Dean Winchester placed the pool stick on the table and followed on the heels of his seductress.

In the background, yet another Cream song was playing…

_ Born under a bad sign…_

_ I've been down since I began to crawl…_

_ If it wasn't for bad luck,_

_ I wouldn't have no luck at all…_

_ Bad luck and trouble's my only friend…_

_ I've been down ever since I was ten…_

_ Born under a bad sign…_

_ I've been down since I began to crawl…_

_ If it wasn't for bad luck,_

_ I wouldn't have no luck at all…_

_ You know, wine and women is all I crave…_

_ A big, bad woman's gonna carry me to my grave…_

Too bad Dean Winchester hadn't been paying attention.


	4. A Bad Day in the Life

**Disclaimer: **All previous disclaimers apply.

**The story thus far: **Sam and Dean arrive in tiny Holstein, Iowa for a much needed vacation. Sam crashes in the hotel while Dean is seduced by a beautiful redhead who appears to be everything he'd ever want in a woman. Our story takes up the following morning...

**Chapter 4: A (Bad) Day in the Life**

Sam woke with a start. He glanced quickly around the room reflexively scanning the shadowed corners. Although he'd only been back on the hunt for a year, the training that their father had instilled, no – make that drilled – into them from the time they could understand the spoken word, had become second nature.

"_Always assume there's a threat,"_ John had said. _"Evil doesn't care if you've gotten your beauty sleep or not, so you've got to be prepared. Remember, shoot first and ask questions later."_

Satisfied that his scan of the room hadn't detected any danger, Sam swung his legs over the edge of the bed and reached his arms towards the ceiling, arcing backwards to stretch his back muscles. _Man, that's got to be the best sleep I've had in months. _

He fumbled around for the remote and turned off the long-forgotten television. Glancing at the clock winking out '5:00' on its digital display and, realizing that Dean's bed was still undisturbed, Sam shook his head in awe and with a little laugh said to himself, "With you here, Dean, the ladies of Holstein, Iowa will never be safe."

Just as he made the statement, Dean pushed the door of their room open, and removing the key from the lock, asked, "You always talk to yourself, geek boy? You know, that's probably why you don't get any dates."

Dean was whistling as he crossed the room with a smug swagger, tossed himself in a nearby chair and propped his feet up on the small end table, crossing one ankle over the other.

"I take it things went well for you last night."

"Uh huh."

Sam shook his head again. "Dean, you're shameless. You know that? Utterly shameless."

Dean gave Sam one of his 'I-can't-help-it-if-the-girls-love-me' innocent looks. "You ought to try letting your hair down sometime, Sammy. We _are_ single, you know…and you know what they say about what it means to be single – stay intoxicated nightly, get laid everyday."

_Well, there you had it in all of its profound glory…the meaning of life as explained by Dean Winchester. _

"You're disgusting, Dean. I can't believe I've got a degenerate for a brother."

"Oooh, big word there, college boy." Dean's hazel eyes danced with amusement.

"Jerk."

Dean rose from his chair and headed towards the bathroom. As he got to the doorframe, the sandy haired hunter glanced back over his shoulder at Sam, shitty grin firmly in place and shot back, "Bitch."

A half hour later, Dean had gotten showered and dressed. Sam had disappeared into the bathroom to get his shower next, a devious grin spreading across Dean's face. While Dean had showered he had intentionally allowed the water to run until it had made the transition from warm and comforting to shockingly cold. The yelp of surprise that had emanated from the bathroom when the first spray of icy water struck Sam had elicited a vengeful and self-satisfied chuckle from Dean. _Paybacks are hell, Sammy._

When Sam emerged from the bathroom he glared pointedly at Dean but said nothing. Instead, he dressed in silence and they headed next door to the diner for some of Mabel's famous apple turnovers. Her husband, the clerk at the motel, hadn't lied when he told Sam they were the best around. Each hunter hungrily devoured two of the flaky, fruit-filled pastries, washing them down with large glasses of cold milk.

"Earth to Dean…come in, Dean…"

Dean had been uncharacteristically quiet through his second apple turnover and was now absently pushing tiny crumbs from the tasty confections around his plate with his fork.

No matter how tired Dean had been in the past, he was hardly ever without something to say. In fact, snarkiness was a Dean Winchester trademark and its sudden absence put Sam on edge.

Dean leaned back against the padded backrest of the diner's booth.

"Huh? Oh…go ahead, Sammy. I was listening."

"Uh, huh…I've been talking to you for the past 10 minutes and you've been totally tuned out. You, ok?"

Sam tried hard not to let his concern put an edge to his voice, but he could tell by Dean's disapproving look that he had been pitifully unsuccessful in concealing it.

"I'm fine, _Mom_."

That last word had been said with sarcasm. Dean loved his little brother and would give his life for him without a moment's hesitation, but Sam had an annoying habit of playing the mother hen role when it came to Dean.

Sam could see he'd struck a nerve with Dean so he didn't bother to respond. Instead, he just nodded and decided to let the subject drop. They were on vacation because they were exhausted and then Dean had stayed out all night. He was probably just tired.

Sam knew from experience that Dean would never outright tell him if he was feeling ill, anyway. He could have an arm virtually torn from his body, hanging by the thinnest of sinew, and Dean would continue to assert that it was "just a flesh wound" and he "was fine". Sam knew Dean did it out of a warped sense that he was protecting his younger brother, but it didn't make Sam worry any less. In fact, most times it made him worry that much more.

After paying for their breakfasts, Sam and Dean returned to their small hotel room. While Sam busied himself straightening up and gathering up their dirty laundry, Dean unrolled his frame onto his previously undisturbed bed. He let out a deep sigh and settled his head into the comforting softness of the pillow and closed his eyes.

Sam continued stuffing dirty clothes into a duffel bag. "I'm gonna head out to the Laundromat. Is there anything you want me to pick up while I'm out?"

At the sound of Sam's voice Dean flicked his eyes open. "Nah. I'm good. I think I'm just gonna stay here and get a little shut eye."

Sam gathered up the duffel bag of clothing, grabbed the keys to the Impala from the bedside stand and headed for the door. "Ok. I'm heading out then. I'll be back in a couple of hours."

Dean hadn't appeared to hear him but as the latch on the door clicked open and Sam prepared to step through the portal, Dean pushed himself up onto his elbows. "You scratch my baby and I'll hunt your sorry ass down, vacation or no vacation."

Sam scowled, silently pulled the door shut behind him and headed across the parking lot towards the classic car.

Once Dean heard the familiar throaty growl of the Impala as it pulled from the parking lot, he rose from the bed and padded across the room to the bag containing their medical supplies. After rummaging briefly, he found the bottle of Tylenol, popped the top and dumped two of the white tablets into his outstretched hand.

Downing the medication with a small glass of water he'd retrieved from the bathroom, Dean lay back down onto the bed and massaged at his forehead with the fingers of one hand. A deep-seated ache had begun forming in his head while he and Sam were still at the diner and the throbbing had settled in with earnest now. He rolled onto his left side, closed his eyes and did his best to fall asleep.

* * *

Dean had no idea just how long he'd been asleep when he heard Sam's key jiggling in the lock. He wiped the sleep from his eyes, pulled himself up to sit on the side of the bed and proceeded to stretch, a small yawn escaping when he'd hit the apex of his stretch. Apparently the combination of the nap and the Tylenol had done the trick as Dean noted with relief that his headache had vanished.

"Hey. I'm glad you're up." Sam tossed the car keys back onto the bedside stand and set the bundle of clean laundry down on his bed.

"While I was at the coin laundry I saw a notice for a spaghetti luncheon at the local volunteer fire company. They're dedicating a new engine. I thought we could go and then drive up to Cherokee later tonight to catch a movie. They're showing Pirates of the Caribbean: Dean Man's Chest."

Dean gave Sam a look of unfettered consternation. "Right, because a community fire hall dinner is stimulating entertainment. The movie I can handle, the dinner…" Dean just let the sentence fade away without completing it.

"Look, Dean, it wouldn't hurt you to try enjoying your stay here and the money we spend on this dinner goes to offset the costs of running the fire company. Small towns like this depend on donations and fundraisers to keep their fire departments functioning. It's a good cause. Anyway, maybe you'll get lucky and your 'friend' from last night will be there."

Dean's expression brightened noticeably. "Marissa?" He hadn't thought about the possibility that the attractive woman from the diner might also be attending the event.

The beginnings of a cocky smile crept across Dean's face until it reached maturity. "Well, now that you put it that way, I suppose I could be persuaded to go."

* * *

Tables had been set end to end to form several long rows of banquet-style seating neatly arranged across the garage floor of the fire hall.

Normally, the apparatus would be housed here, but had been moved out and proudly displayed on the lawn. The new Mack engine took center stage and had been adorned in red, white and blue bunting with the Iowa state flag draped over one side, the US flag draped over the other.

The boys had located two seats across from one another. After the blessing had been given by the fire chief, the country-style meal began as the large containers of spaghetti and platters of toasted garlic bread placed at various locations at each row of tables were passed from person to person down the rows. Plates were heaped high with the steaming food and friendly conversations bantered back and forth. Members of the Women's Auxiliary bustled here and there making certain each table had a continuous supply of piping hot food.

The man seated next to Sam smiled warmly at him. "You boys just move to the area? Don't recall as I've seen you around here."

Sam cheeked the bite of garlic bread he'd been savoring and took a quick sip of water. "We just got in yesterday. We're here vacationing."

The middle-aged farmer stifled a chuckle, but his amusement was obvious from the way his eyes crinkled at the corners. "Don't mean to be forward and all, 'cause it really ain't none of my business, but why on earth would you come to Holstein, of all places, for a vacation? Not like we got anything out here but corn and cows."

Before Sam could open his mouth to reply Dean had flashed in with, "That's what I sa…" The kick he'd received under the table from Sam cut him off in mid-word.

"Well, sir, we were looking for a place where we could just kick back and relax and Holstein seemed to fit the bill."

The farmer reached out a burly, calloused hand towards Sam.

"Name's Hoover, Gordy Hoover."

Sam grasped the man's offered hand and shook it heartily.

"I'm Sam Townsend…" and motioning in his brother's direction, "…and this is my brother, Dean." Even though they weren't on a hunt they had still decided it was safer to use a ficticious last name. Dean had chosen Townsend because he liked the unique "windmill" guitar style of The Who's Pete Townsend.

"Listen, Sam…I've got a two hundred fifty acre parcel out the north side of town. Run dairy cattle. Don't have much here to keep you boys occupied so if you're needin' something to do and wouldn't mind some physical activity, I sure wouldn't mind the help."

He gestured towards one of the women serving food. "My wife, Brenda, she's a damn fine cook. She'd keep ya well fed and you could earn some spare money helping me with some of the chores."

Remembering their shamefully lacking supply of cash, and not wanting Dean to end up having the sheriff running them out of town for hustling pool, Sam readily agreed to assist his new friend.

"Sure, we'd love to help. Just let us know where and when and we'll be there."

Dean couldn't believe his ears. Had Sam just really committed the two of them to spending their vacation doing farm chores? What happened to the whole 'we need the rest' ploy Sam had used to get him here? He'd already been unhappy enough about having to come to this bucolic burg to begin with and now, with this newest revelation, he was hurtling past glum without even collecting his two hundred dollars, and was headed straight for a head-on collision with miserable. What's more, his surveillance of the room had failed to turn up any sighting of Marissa.

_Man, this day is going to hell in a hand basket._

The farmer grinned broadly at Sam's consent to his proposition. "Ok, then. It's a deal."

* * *

The meal had been delicious and quite filling. Even Dean had to admit that it had been worth the price they'd paid…all except, of course, for the deal Sam had gotten them into with Gordy Hoover.

They were now on their way to Cherokee to see the movie. Dean had slid behind the wheel into the driver's seat and had driven for several miles when he noticed his headache returning. It wasn't that bad but Dean was secretly kicking himself for not having thought to bring along some of that Tylenol. Sam was such a damned boy scout, with that whole 'be prepared' thing, that he probably had some, but Dean wasn't about to let on to his little brother that he could use some or he'd be nagging and mothering him all night and half of the next day.

By the time they'd made it to the theater in Cherokee, Dean had pushed all thoughts of his headache from his mind. They paid their admission and chose seats near the middle of the darkened theater. Soon, the movie trailers were flashing on the screen and the sound was blaring from the multiple speakers strategically placed around the cinema.

Dean lost track of time as he enjoyed Johnny Depp's performance as the rapscallion pirate, Jack Sparrow. Several times during the film he'd vaguely noted that he seemed to be missing little chunks of the action, almost as though he'd had trouble maintaining his concentration and had tuned out. Not for long, but just long enough to make following the movie a bit difficult.

It was during one of these periods that he became acutely aware that, despite the air conditioning in the building, his clothing was drenched with sweat.

Dean leaned slightly towards Sam and motioned for him to let him past. "Gotta go to the john. Be right back, Sammy."

Dean was feeling a little dizzy but quickly made his way up the theatre aisle, out the door and into the men's restroom. As he turned the faucet on, he was glad to see that he was alone. He bent down and splashed his face with cool water and without straightening up, reached up, turned off the tap and viciously ripped a few paper towels from their wall holder. Dabbing at the water still dripping from his face, he straightened to his full height. He was still feeling a bit lightheaded but it seemed to have improved.

Catching his reflection in the mirror, he marveled at the way his sweat-soaked clothing clung to him.

"What's up with that?" Dean wondered allowed.

He peered into the mirror noting that he didn't appear to be flushed or feverish. And yet, here he stood in an air conditioned building sweating as though he'd just finished hunting down some werewolf.

Dean decided it was better not to dally any longer and pitched his crumpled up paper towels into the trash. If he was gone too long, Sam would probably end up coming to look for him and he really didn't have any explanations with which to answer the inevitable questions Sam would fire at him.

By the time the movie had ended Dean's head had started to pound again. As far as Dean was concerned, the drive back to the motel in Holstein seemed interminably long. He couldn't wait to get back, take a hot shower, a few more Tylenol and crash in bed. Thankfully, Sam seemed to be none the wiser that Dean wasn't one hundred percent on his game.

Once back at the motel, Dean was actually thankful when Sam had announced that he was getting his shower first since Dean had used up all the hot water that morning. Sam's extended disappearance into the tiny bathroom would give Dean plenty of time to find the Tylenol and, hopefully, get a little relief before he had to face Sam again. Keeping up pretenses was starting to wear on him.

The Tylenol hadn't done much by the time Dean heard Sam shut the water off. In fact, you could actually say things had gotten worse. The pain, itself, hadn't escalated, but now Dean was having trouble seeing straight.

Everywhere he looked around the room Dean saw two of everything and the dizziness had returned. The next trick would be getting into the bathroom without banging into things which, of course, would be a sure indication to Sam that something was up. Dean wasn't about to let that happen, especially when it was probably nothing more than the flu or a nasty hang-over from his recent exploration of the local bar scene.

The double vision had made getting a shower a challenge. Dean had had to fumble around several times until he'd gotten the water settings right and just the act of washing his short-cropped, sandy-colored hair had taken extra time.

Each time he'd reached for the bottle of shampoo, choosing one of the two he was seeing, his hand would appear to pass right through it. It had taken several unsuccessful tries at retrieving it before he'd thought to adjust his approach, finally latching his strong hand around the body of the bottle.

The hot shower had washed some of the tension from Dean's body but the headache, double vision and slight dizziness were unchanged. Mercifully, by the time Dean was done toweling off and dressing in boxers and a T-shirt, Sam had turned the bedroom light off and crawled into his bed. The only light in the room was the soft glow given off by the built-in nightlight at the far side of the room that was required by the local fire code.

Sam had heard the bathroom door open and his sleepy voice mumbled up from his pillow. "Thank God I took my shower first. As long as you took, I'm surprised there's any water at all left in the town reservoir."

Dean was thankful for the poor lighting and numerous shadows that afforded him some measure of assurance that he could crawl into bed without getting Sam's "Dean radar" blipping. At this point he didn't want to have to deal with Sam and his unfounded concerns. He just wanted to slip into bed and let the Tylenol do its job.

He carefully crossed the short distance to his bed and lowered himself on its edge, feeling with his hands to make sure he wouldn't slide off, or worse yet, miss it entirely.

"What can I say bro? When you have a body as hot as Dean Winchester's it takes a little extra time taking care of it. I've got a reputation to uphold with the ladies."

"Whatever you say, Dean. Now shut up and get some sleep."

* * *

Sam had finally fallen into a restful sleep. Dean could tell Sam was asleep by the slow, even breathing he could hear coming from Sam's side of the room.

Dean waited what had seemed like forever, for Sam to give into sleep, and then waited just a bit longer, to be certain he wasn't going to awaken again. It had been a few hours since he'd taken the Tylenol and they'd done absolutely nothing to rid him of his discomfort.

Stealthily, he pulled back the covers and made his way to the bag containing the medical supplies. He fished around inside until he found the bottle of Percocet he'd been prescribed after that yellow-eyed bastard of a demon had sliced and diced his chest back there in the cabin in Minnesota. He hadn't needed the additional refill, but knowing that injuries were inevitable in their line of work, they had wisely decided to fill it anyway. You just never knew when it would come in handy and tonight Dean was thankful they'd thought ahead.

He turned the bottle's label towards the nightlight and read: "Percocet 7.5/325…Take 1-2 tablets every 4-6 hours as needed for severe pain. #30 tabs." An additional label affixed to the bottle warned that drowsiness was a frequent effect of the medicine and care must be taken when driving or operating hazardous machinery. He soundlessly opened the container and, not wanting to waste precious supplies, gulped down only one tablet, placed the bottle back in its original location and returned to bed.

Dean had prayed for the Percocet to grant him a decent night's sleep but he found himself tossing and turning most of the night. Sleep, it seemed, was an elusive commodity for Dean Winchester.


	5. Meltdown

**Disclaimer: **See Chapter 1

**A/N: **The story's pace should pick up from here. Hope you enjoy!

**From the previous chapter:**

_Sam had finally fallen into a restful sleep. Dean could tell Sam was asleep by the slow, even breathing he could hear coming from Sam's side of the room. _

_Dean had been waiting what seemed like forever, for Sam to give into sleep, and then waited just a bit longer, to be certain he wasn't going to awaken again. It had been a few hours since he'd taken the Tylenol and they'd done absolutely nothing to rid him of his discomfort. _

_Stealthily, he pulled back the covers and made his way to the bag containing the medical supplies. He fished around inside until he found the bottle of Percocet he'd been prescribed after that yellow-eyed bastard of a demon had sliced and diced his chest back there in the cabin in Minnesota. _

_He hadn't needed the additional refill, but knowing that injuries were inevitable in their line of work, they had wisely decided to fill it anyway. You just never knew when it would come in handy and tonight Dean was thankful they'd thought ahead._

_He turned the bottle's label towards the nightlight and read: "Percocet 7.5/325…Take 1-2 tablets every 4-6 hours as needed for severe pain. #30 tabs." An additional label affixed to the bottle warned that drowsiness was a frequent effect of the medicine and care must be taken when driving or operating hazardous machinery. He soundlessly opened the container and not wanting to waste precious supplies, gulped down only one tablet, placed the bottle back in its original location and returned to bed._

_Dean had prayed for the Percocet to grant him a decent night's sleep but he found himself tossing and turning most of the night. Sleep, it seemed, was an elusive commodity for Dean Winchester._

* * *

**Chapter 5: Meltdown**

Sam and Dean had been in Holstein for five days now and had fallen into an easy, comfortable routine. The morning of the sixth day dawned bright and, as far as Dean was concerned, far too early. Sam had bounded out of bed like a kid on Christmas morning and was eagerly dressing for yet another day of helping on Gordy Hoover's farm. They'd been helping out for almost a week now and Dean had to admit it wasn't as horrible an experience as he'd expected it to be. It would have been better, mind you, had he been able to get rid of his headaches for more than a few hours at a time but he had actually found the physical activity to be a pleasant diversion.

When he found he could get relief no other way, he'd returned to the bottle of Percocet and took solace there. Lately, he'd been finding the need to take more than just the one pill and more frequently than before, so he'd started stowing the bottle of Percocet in his own duffel where it would be easier to get at when he needed it…and without Sam noticing. Sam wouldn't question him sifting through his own bags, but rifling through the medical bag would certainly stir suspicions. The double vision and dizziness seemed to come and go, but Dean had done well at hiding their effects on him.

The other issue had been his sleep. Considering how tired he felt after a hard day of farm chores he was having trouble understanding why he just couldn't sleep. It seemed he'd no more than doze off and then he was awake again. Often he'd end up pacing, surfing the Internet or trying to watch some really bad late-night movie with the sound turned down low so as not to wake Sam.

Sam had finally been able to sleep through the night without waking with nightmares of Jess or premonitions of impending evil and Dean was doing everything he could to keep it that way. His little brother had been plagued by the sleep-disrupting dreams for months now and it did his heart good to see him resting so peacefully. Unfortunately, Dean's recent insomnia wasn't going unnoticed by Sam.

"You get much sleep last night?" Sam was looking inquisitively in Dean's direction as he pulled a T-shirt over his mop of dark brown hair.

"Yeah. Slept like a baby." Dean lied. Although the headache had abated after the two Percocet he'd taken, he had still been unable to fall asleep.

"Liar." Sam had finished dressing and sat down on the edge of his bed, facing Dean, and began pulling his boots on. "I know you were up half the night again last night, Dean."

"Bite me, Sammy. I never wanted to come to 'Hicksville, USA', anyway. Is it my fault that I'm going stir crazy here?" Dean's voice was edged with irritation. He hated making Sam feel guilty for dragging them here, especially since the little town and its people had really started to grow on him, but he just wasn't in any mood right now to be dealing with Sam's accusations and game of 'Twenty Questions'.

"Look, I know you hate me asking and think I'm mothering you too much, but I'm concerned. You haven't gotten a decent night's rest since we got here a week ago and now _this_." Sam produced the now nearly empty bottle of Percocet and held it up accusingly towards Dean. "What's up?"

"No, Sam, I don't _think_ you're mothering me too much, I _know_ it. And now you're snooping through my stuff and accusing me of being a drug addict! Fuck you, Sammy!"

"It's Sam! And I _wasn't_ going through your stuff, Dean. You left your bag sitting on my bed and when I moved it to make the bed, the bottle fell out. Dean there were thirty tablets in here when we filled this prescription a couple of months ago. Neither of us has been hurt bad enough to use any and now there are only two pills left. I'm just concerned for you. You're my big brother and if something's wrong, I want to help."

"For God's sake, I'm twenty-six years old. I can take care of myself. Now just leave it the hell alone!" Dean was yelling by this point and not wanting to continue what he saw as an inquisition, he rushed out the door to their room and slammed it hard behind him.

Several minutes ticked by before Sam emerged from the room, locked the door behind him and located Dean seated on a bench a few doors down from their room. Dean was hunched over with his elbows propped on his knees and his head drooping. From Sam's vantage point he appeared to be trembling.

Sam approached quietly and gently placed a questioning hand on Dean's shoulder. At his touch, Dean sat back and peered up at Sam with large tears streaming down his face.

Sam couldn't recall ever seeing Dean crying like that and an expression that combined fear, confusion, empathy and guilt creased his handsome features. Before Sam could speak, Dean suddenly leaned into him, twisting his fists into Sam's shirt and broke down in immense sobs that wracked his muscular frame.

"Sammy, I'm so sorry. Please don't leave me. I didn't mean to yell at you. Please…I couldn't take it if you left…please…please…I'm sorry."

Sam's gut tightened as he heard the raw emotion in Dean's pleading voice. "Dean…Dean," he began in a quiet, soothing tone. "Dean, I'm not going to leave you. I'm staying right here, buddy. What's got you so upset? We've argued before and I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere."

Dean looked up with red-rimmed eyes, tears precariously perched at the corners. With each wide-eyed blink a few crystalline orbs would slide from their positions and cascade down Dean's pale cheeks. "Are you sure? You're really not going to leave me?"

"Afraid not, pal. I think you're stuck with me."

Dean's facial expression had hinted that Sam's reassurances were comforting him when the panic suddenly returned to his voice. "I don't want to be alone, Sam."

"You don't have to worry about that Dean. I'm here with you and I'm not going to leave you…ever. We're brothers, we're bound to argue. I was just worried about you. But if you're not ready to talk about it yet, then I'll just wait until you are. Now come on, let's go. Gordy's gonna be wondering if we've skipped town on him."

* * *

As quickly as the tirade and resulting tears had occurred, they had also disappeared. It was almost like someone had turned a spigot on…and then just as suddenly turned it off.

After arriving at the farm, both boys had quickly fallen into a friendly banter with Gordy as the congenial farmer had laid out his plans for their day.

By noon the multiple hours of back-breaking work had dredged up a hefty appetite in the weary men. Brenda, Gordy's wife, had anticipated this, just as she had all week, and once again laid out a spread of enticing dishes on the picnic table under the maple tree in the front yard. It was too warm to be eating indoors and the combination of the shade from the maple and the gentle Iowa breeze beckoned with an opportunity to cool off.

Sam sprawled his lanky body onto the bench of the picnic table and eyed the food Brenda had prepared. He was probably hungrier than he'd ever been and he could hardly wait to dig into the fried chicken, corn on the cob, fresh carrots, buttermilk biscuits, mashed potatoes and lemonade. Brenda grabbed each man's plate in turn and heaped them high with the farm fresh delicacies.

It wasn't until half-way through the meal that Gordy took notice to the fact that Dean had hardly touched any of his food. "Everything ok there, Dean? You seem to be a little bit off your feed."

The argument he and Sam had had over the Percocet had occurred before Dean could take his next dose of the narcotic pills. Now his head was hammering and he was feeling these odd, stabbing, shock-like pains coursing from his right temple across his cheekbone and down his jaw, ending at his chin. "I'm just not very hungry. You've worked my appetite right out of me, you slave driver." Dean smiled weakly, trying his best to appear as though nothing was wrong.

Gordy let rip with a hearty laugh and agreed. "That's me alright. I got the whips and chains out today for you boys."

"Dean hasn't had much of an appetite since we got here," Sam explained. "He claims he can't handle all of the rich country foods. Personally, I think he just doesn't know how to eat food if it doesn't come out of a box or a fast food wrapper."

Everyone laughed at Sam's comment but Brenda looked over at Dean and rested a hand on his arm. "Don't you let those two bother you, sweetheart. If you're not hungry now, that's fine. I'll have it waiting for you for whenever you are. You just say the word and I'll heat a plate up for you."

Dean looked up at Brenda with tired eyes and simply uttered, "Thanks."

* * *

After everyone had eaten and pitched in to help Brenda clear the table, Gordy, Dean and Sam all returned to their work. Gordy and Sam had traipsed across to the far end of the pasture to tighten up a sagging portion of the fencing while Dean stayed behind filling the stock tanks with water and tending to the calves.

Brenda glanced out from the kitchen sink where she was busily washing the lunch dishes and saw Dean dragging the hose out towards the stock tank next to the barn. She'd already seen him filling the one that supplied the cows on the dry lot with precious water and as he disappeared from view around the corner of the barn, she knew it would take another ten to fifteen minutes before the other large tank was done filling. She absently glanced up at the clock trying to gauge how much time she had before she had to start making preparations for their evening meal.

As she finished the last of the dishes and reached up to dry her hands on the terrycloth towel that dangled from its hook, it dawned on her that she hadn't seen Dean returning from filling the second tank. She glanced up at the clock and noted that it had been a full half hour since she'd seen him making his way around the end of the barn with the hose. Curious, she gazed out the kitchen window and noted a thin stream of water convulsing its way slowly across the barnyard.

Crossing to the other side of the kitchen she pushed the spring-loaded, wooden-edged screen door part way open and poked her head out. "Dean! Dean, honey, your tank's running over!" She assumed that Dean had returned to the barn to do other chores while the tank filled and was too busy to realize the tank was overflowing. When she heard no acknowledgement, she decided to go turn the water off herself and trudged out the door.

_Damn men. They think they know more than women. But if it wasn't for women, nothing would ever get done right._

Splashing through the stream of water that was making its way across the barnyard, she headed immediately for the pump that was just inside the door of the barn. As she pushed the curved handle of the vacuum pump down to cut the flow of water from the well, she called out once again. "Dean? Dean, where are you? I saw the tank overflowing so I turned it off for you. Ok?"

Brenda heard nothing but the gentle lowing of the cattle so she started walking through the barn searching for Dean. As she passed the calves, she noticed Dean had already tended to them and that he had gotten the hay stacked neatly against the wall in preparation for the evening feeding. She turned and started in the direction of the tank. As she rounded the corner of the stockyard she noticed one of Dean's boots peeking out from around the edge of the large tank.

"Dean? Dean…you ok?" Fear was setting in and a sense of panic had edged into her voice. She stepped closer only to see Dean lying in a fetal position on the ground next to the tank. He was clutching at his head and writhing in what appeared to be tremendous pain.

Brenda ran to his side and placing her hands on Dean's arm called out to him. "Dean! Dean, what's the matter! Talk to me!"

Brenda's efforts elicited nothing more than a low, pained groan from Dean's prostrate form. Dean's writhing continued unabated and Brenda's panic only increased when she noted the pallor of Dean's skin and how sweaty it felt.

"Dean…I'm gonna go get help. I'll be back as soon as I can. Just hang on."

Brenda sprinted across the distance between the barn and the house, slamming her way through the screen door with such a vengeance that it practically tore it from its hinges, and then grabbed for the phone on the kitchen wall. Right now she was regretting the fact that their extremely rural location and lack of local funding had prevented the community from gaining a sorely needed 911 service.

Even if they were able to get on a 911 network, the community of Holstein had yet to afford the equipment and training needed to supply the tiny town with an ambulance service of their own. Instead, they were forced to wait for ambulances from surrounding communities; a wait that often had tragic consequences.

Brenda wasn't going to wait for that. She knew Dean needed help and he needed it now. Instead, her trembling fingers dialed her husband's cell phone. She waited impatiently as the phone rang in her ear. Just then, she heard the familiar tones of Gordy's cell phone jangling away in the living room.

_Damn! Gordy must have left it there when he helped to clean up the lunch dishes._

Slamming the phone back down onto its cradle, Brenda dashed back out of the house and slid to a stop at the cast iron bell that hung from a pole in the yard. Before Gordy had gotten his cell phone she'd used it as a way to call him in from the fields for meals. Now as she desperately tugged at the bell's rope, she hoped its incessant tone would get her the help she needed.

"Hang on, Dean. Hang on."


	6. For Whom the Bell Tolls

**Disclaimer: **yada, yada, yada...See Chapter 1.

**From the previous chapter:**

_"Dean...I'm gonna go get help. I'll be back as soon as I can. Just hang on."_

_Brenda sprinted across the distance between the barn and the house, slamming her way through the screen door with such a vengeance that it practically tore it from its hinges, and then grabbed for the phone on the kitchen wall. Right now she was regretting the fact that their extremely rural location and lack of local funding had prevented the community from gaining a sorely needed 911 service._

_Even if they were able to get on a 911 network, the community of Holstein had yet to afford the equipment and training needed to supply the tiny town with an ambulance service of their own. Instead, they were forced to wait for ambulances from surrounding communities; a wait that often had tragic consequences._

_Brenda wasn't going to wait for that. She knew Dean needed help and he needed it now. Instead, her trembling fingers dialed her husband's cell phone. She waited impatiently as the phone rang in her ear. Just then, she heard the familiar tones of Gordy's cell phone jangling away in the living room._

Damn! Gordy must have left it there when he helped to clean up the lunch dishes.

_Slamming the phone back down onto its cradle, Brenda dashed back out of the house and slid to a stop at the cast iron bell that hung from a pole in the yard. Before Gordy had gotten his cell phone, she'd used it as a way to call him in from the fields for meals. Now, as she desperately tugged at the bell's rope, she hoped its incessant tone would get her the help she needed._

_"Hang on, Dean. Hang on."_

**Chapter 6: For Whom the Bell Tolls**

Sam stopped what he was doing, stood up straight and listened intently. Something had caught his attention…some sound…wafting in on the wind.

Gordy looked questioningly at him. "What's the matter?"

Sam had an intense look on his face and was still straining to hear. "I thought I heard something." As he paused, the sound once again reached his ears. "There. That's what I heard. What is that?"

Gordy turned toward the sound, recognition lighting his face. "That's the bell in my front yard. Brenda used to use it to call me in for dinner…before I got my cell phone." Confusion leeched into his voice. "Why would she be ringing that now?"

He patted down his jeans pockets, looking for the missing cell phone, as the insistent ringing of the iron bell continued.

"Damn. I must have left my cell at the house. Sam, it's not like Brenda to keep up with that damnable ringing for no reason. Something's up. I think we best get back to the house."

* * *

As the two men hurried from the pasture and into the yard a frantic Brenda came running towards them. 

"Something's wrong with Dean! He went out to fill the tanks and when I didn't see him come back, I went looking for him. When I found him he was lying on the ground, curled up and moaning. He won't respond to me!"

Sam grabbed Brenda firmly by both upper arms and bent down slightly to peer straight into her eyes. "Where is he? Show me!"

The three of them sprinted back across the barnyard to where Brenda had left Dean almost 10 minutes before. He was still in a fetal position, hands and arms curled protectively over his head and face, his legs slowly squirming with each throbbing pulse of pain. Sam hurried to his side.

"Dean…it's Sam. Tell me what's wrong. Talk to me!"

When Dean didn't respond, but only continued to groan loudly, Sam reached over and pulled Dean's hands away from his head. Sam was shocked at how pale his brother's face looked and noted with a growing sense of panic that he was sweating profusely.

In an effort to get Dean to focus so that he could find out what had happened, Sam loosened his grip on Dean's wrists and cupped a hand gently on each side of Dean's face.

The instant Sam's hands made contact with Dean's face the moaning turned suddenly into the primal, shrieking screams of unequalled agony. Dean arched his back and desperately clawed at Sam's arms, struggling in vain to get away from the unending torment.

"We gotta get him to a hospital. Sam, you stay with him and I'll go get the truck." Before Sam could reply Gordy had dashed away.

Sam sat on the ground cradling his older brother, rocking back and forth. Dean's screaming had stopped but was once again replaced by a low, whimpering moan. Brenda could see the fear etched into the younger brother's face.

"It'll be OK, Sam. Gordy'll get him the help he needs…and Dean's strong…everything'll be alright." She had said it with a conviction that she didn't feel, but tried hard not to let Sam see through to that.

Sam heard the revving of the truck's engine as it skidded to a stop not far from where Dean lay. Dean still wasn't responding to him and, even if he had been, Sam wasn't sure Dean would be able to walk the short distance to the waiting transportation.

Gordy came running from the driver's side and assisted Sam in picking up Dean's limp form and placing it in the truck. Sam slid in next to Dean, allowing his head to loll onto Sam's left shoulder. Dean continued to moan, with eyes closed, as Gordy slammed the passenger side door, jarring Sam's shoulder. The sudden movement caused Dean to cry out wretchedly again.

Gordy climbed back into the cab of the truck. "We'll call you when we know something," the worried farmer called back to his wife as he stomped the gas pedal of the truck to the floorboards, a spray of gravel flying out from the tires as they fought for traction in the dirt lane.

* * *

Even though Gordy had pushed the truck as much as he could on the narrow and bumpy country roads, the ride to the nearest hospital had seemed endless. Each pothole the vehicle had endured jostled the truck's occupants and brought forth yet another round of agonized screams from the older hunter. 

The truck screeched to a halt outside the tiny medical center. Gordy ran from the driver's side, the truck's door left hanging open. He burst through the doors of the Emergency Room, bellowing loudly. "We need help out here! My friend…I don't know what's wrong…he needs help!"

Two nurses and an orderly pushed past Gordy with a gurney and headed out the door towards the still idling pickup truck. Sam had seen them coming and pushed the passenger door open with his foot. As the medical team steadied the gurney, Sam gently eased his brother's flaccid body from the cab and laid him on his back. He had cried out twice as Sam had inadvertently brushed against Dean's face.

As the medical team rushed the gurney back through the doors, Sam noted with dismay how pale and fragile Dean looked.

Gordy noted the distressed look on Sam's face as he stood next to the truck, blankly staring in the direction of the ER doors and looking suddenly like a very lost, little boy. A shudder passed through the boy's body and Gordy put an arm around him and pulled him in close.

"It'll be OK, Sam. They'll take good care of him. You'll see." Gordy paused briefly to let his words sink in and then said, "Let's get this bucket of bolts parked, get us some coffee and see what the doc has to say."

* * *

**To be continued...**


	7. Pills, Perceptions and Pomposity

**Disclaimer: **Still not gaining any money from this!

**A/N:** Many thanks to those of you that are sticking with my first pitiful attempt at a fanfic. If you've taken the time to review...buckets of thanks. If you haven't, please do so. I'd like to know what I'm doing that's working and not working. My continuted attempts at writing other fanfics are going to depend entirely on whether my readers think I'm doing a good job with this one!

**From the previous chapter:**

_The truck screeched to a halt outside the tiny medical center. Gordy ran from the driver's side, the truck's door left hanging open. He burst through the doors of the Emergency Room, bellowing loudly. "We need help out here! My friend…I don't know what's wrong…he needs help!"_

_Two nurses and an orderly pushed past Gordy with a gurney and headed out the door towards the still idling pickup truck. Sam had seen them coming and pushed the passenger door open with his foot. As the medical team steadied the gurney, Sam gently eased his brother's flaccid body from the cab and laid him on his back. He had cried out twice as Sam had inadvertently brushed against Dean's face._

_As the medical team rushed the gurney back through the doors, Sam noted with dismay how pale and fragile Dean looked._

_Gordy noted the distressed look on Sam's face as he stood next to the truck, blankly staring in the direction of the ER doors and looking suddenly like a very lost, little boy. A shudder passed through the boy's body and Gordy put an arm around him and pulled him in close._

_"It'll be OK, Sam. They'll take good care of him. You'll see." Gordy paused briefly to let his words sink in and then said, "Let's get this bucket of bolts parked, go in, get us some coffee and see what the doc has to say."_

* * *

**Chapter 7: Pills, Perceptions and Pomposity**

As the pair entered the registration area of the rural hospital, Sam was relieved to see very few people seated in the ER's waiting area. Maybe that would mean that the department wasn't too busy and the doctor could devote all of his attention to Dean. Maybe, too, it meant that Sam would have an answer quickly as to just what had gone wrong.

Sam was seated in a hard plastic chair, his body inclined forward with his elbows propped on his knees. He stared sightlessly at the gaudy carpeting of the waiting area while Gordy thumbed absently through a magazine.

His reverie was interrupted when a petite clerk walked up, and looking back and forth between Sam and Gordy, began in an apologetic tone, "Excuse me. I'm sorry to interrupt but we need to get your friend registered so that the computer system can generate a chart for him. Do either of you have any insurance information?"

Sam looked up at the clerk and let out a tired sigh. "I do. I'm his brother. I can give you whatever you need."

"Ok, then, would you mind stepping over here with me? That way we'll get this out of the way so you'll be ready when they're ready for you back there."

Sam rose from his seat and followed the clerk to her computer. Only after he'd answered her many questions and produced their insurance cards for her to Xerox did Sam return to his seat.

As he settled back down, Gordy looked up and vigorously clasped Sam's shoulder in his meat hook of a hand. "How you holdin' up, Sam?"

Sam leaned back, closed his eyes and scrubbed at his face with his hands. "Ok, I guess. It's just…I…well, I…"

Gordy could tell that whatever Sam was trying to say, it was something that deeply bothered him and if he remained quiet and supportive, Sam would eventually be able to finish. He gave Sam's shoulder another squeeze with his hand to let Sam know he was there for him and waited for Sam to find the right words.

"…I yelled at him this morning. It started out as a small disagreement and I just wouldn't leave it alone. We ended up screaming at each other and Dean stormed out. I found him a few minutes later and he was crying…bawling like a baby."

Sam paused and turned his head towards Gordy. He searched the man's eyes for a rebuke and finding none, he went on.

"Gordy, Dean never cries. _Never_…and I had reduced him to a quivering mess. Something has to be drastically wrong. What if I never get another chance to tell him I love him? To tell him how much he means to me…that I'd be lost without him?" Sam sagged lower in his seat and blew out a long sigh.

"Sam," Gordy began with a stern tone, "I want you to listen to me…and listen to me good. We _all_ argue from time to time. It's just human nature. But just because we argue doesn't mean we love the other person any less. You're not responsible for putting him here. Dean loves you…and he knows you love him. And you can tell him again yourself when he's feeling better."

Gordy paused, waiting for a response from his younger companion. When none was forthcoming, he continued more forcefully. "You hear what I'm saying, Sam?"

"Yes, sir." That was a response normally reserved only for his father, but the stern tone that Gordy had taken with Sam had reminded him so much of John that the response had come out reflexively.

"You believe what I'm saying?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, alright, then. Glad we got that cleared up." Just then, Gordy spied a doctor rambling through the inner ER doors and heading for the waiting area. Sam was still leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed. Gordy nudged him gently with his elbow and when Sam looked up, pointed in the direction of the advancing man.

* * *

The doctor was dressed in traditional blue-green surgical scrubs. He had a mop of reddish-brown hair, parted on the side and pushed back in a conservative manner. A small tuft of hair had escaped control and was lying askance across his forehead. He was of medium height and walked with a rather distinguished bearing. When he spoke, his voice revealed the remnants of a British accent.

"Are you gentlemen with Dean Townsend?"

Gordy and Sam both rose from their chairs. "I'm Dean's brother, Sam, and this is our friend, Gordy Hoover."

"I'm Dean's physician, Dr. Stevens. I've had a chance to check him over and make sure he's stable. As a precaution, we've placed him on a heart monitor, started a saline IV and attempted to place some oxygen on him. I say 'attempted', because he became combative with our attempts to apply the oxygen, so we opted to hold off on that. Instead, we're monitoring his oxygen saturation and will apply the oxygen at a later time, should it become absolutely necessary. I've also ordered a basic blood work-up and we already did a bedside test of his blood sugar. He's still very 'out of it' and isn't responding to us."

"What's wrong with him?" Sam was in such a hurry he practically spat the words out.

"Well, that's why I'm here talking with you. In order to make a diagnosis I need more information…information I'm not able to get from Dean right now." Dr. Stevens gestured towards the chairs, indicating that they should take a seat. "What can you tell me about the period leading up to Dean's collapse?"

Sam hated to have to relive the recent events revolving around his brother but he knew it was important, so he took a deep breath and began telling what he knew.

"We'd been working all day…on the farm…nothing unusual, really. We finished up with the morning milking and then spent most of the rest of the morning baling and stacking hay. We came in for lunch and then went back to work. Gordy and I went out to tighten up some fence while Dean stayed back, feeding the calves, cleaning out the calf hutches and filling the stock tanks."

Dr. Stevens nodded his understanding and went on. "It's been pretty warm today. Did Dean make sure he was drinking plenty of fluids?"

"Yeah. That's about all he took today," Gordy pushed in. "When we went in for lunch, he barely took two bites of his meal. He said he wasn't hungry."

"Were you with him when he collapsed? What did he say or do?"

"No, neither of us was with him." Hooking his thumb over his shoulder in Gordy's direction, Sam continued, "Brenda, Gordy's wife, was there…sort of. She went looking for Dean when he didn't turn up and found him on the ground, curled in a fetal position and clutching at his head. He wouldn't talk to any of us and just laid there writhing around and moaning. When I touched his face to try to get him to focus, he just started screaming and thrashing around."

"Yeah," Gordy interjected, "…and on the way over here he wouldn't respond until we hit a pothole in the road. Seemed like he'd cry out every time he was jostled around."

"Um hmmm. What about medicines? Is Dean allergic to any or taking any?"

"No," Sam started, "…he's not allergic to anything and he's not taking…" Sam's voice trailed away as his mind started flipping back to the events of that morning.

Gordy looked at Sam with a confused, expectant look. "What? What's the matter?"

"Dean…he had a bottle of Percocet in his bag. I found it by accident…when I picked the bag up, the bottle tumbled out. The label said there should have been thirty tablets in it. But when I looked inside there were only two left. When I confronted him about why he'd been taking them, he got really angry, accused me of spying on him and stormed out."

Dr. Stevens hated where his thoughts were taking him, but he had to consider everything for the sake of his patient. "Twenty-eight tablets," he mumbled distractedly. "Sam, how long ago was this?"

The urgency in Dr. Stevens' voice had not been lost on Dean's younger sibling and Sam didn't really like where the conversation was headed. "You don't think…no…Dean would never do something that stupid. No…no way."

"Look, Sam, I know a purposeful overdose may not be a pleasant thing to think about, but considering Dean's physical condition, I think it's something we have to consider."

Gordy glared at Dr. Stevens defensively and growled, "What the hell does _that _mean?"

Still staring pointedly at Sam, Dr. Stevens continued on without acknowledging the look of indignation on Gordy's face.

"Look, Sam, scars and bruises like the ones Dean has don't come without their emotional baggage. Traumatic injuries can cause emotions that are so overpowering that they cripple a person's ability to see past them…to cope."

* * *

Sam knew that talking about the "family business" was a strict no-no, but he suddenly felt compelled to defend his older brother, explain away the multitude of scars that littered practically every inch of his body, and pound into this doctor's head the kind of man Dean Winchester is. There was no way Sam could let this pompous, Limey doctor go on thinking Dean would take the coward's way out. It was just impossible. No matter how bad things got, Dean Winchester would never try committing suicide. Dean was the strongest, bravest person Sam knew…more so, even, than John.

Gordy looked like he was ready to take a swing at the British doctor. Feeling he needed to defuse the situation before it degenerated any further, Sam jumped in, very careful to describe their "work" in the most general of terms.

"Dean and I…we hunt for a living. We go all across the country exterminating things…things that terrorize people and communities…"

The last thing Sam needed to do was inadvertantly cause more trouble for himself and Dean by blurting things out without thinking, so he paused to gather his thoughts. That's when Gordy jumped in and innocently gave Sam a perfect cover story.

"You two are like those 'Critter Gitter' guys down in Guthrie County," Gordy put in. It had been more of an affirmation than a question. "You go in and trap, remove or kill wildlife that's strayed too close to populated areas?"

Things were finally falling into place in Gordy's mind. He figured there was no way two city-slicker boys had the stamina to do the work Sam and Dean had been doing with ease…and without complaint. Finding out that they had physically taxing jobs sure explained a lot.

"Yeah, I suppose so. Only we deal with…_big game_." Sam wasn't sure just how else to describe their usual playmates and he sure as shit knew he couldn't blurt out that they hunted demons, ghosts and spirits. Especially not with 'Dr. Who', there, standing right in front of him. He'd already basically labeled Dean as an emotional cripple and going on about demons and such certainly would only serve to make them_ both_ appear psychotic.

"So, you hunt the big baddies like bears, cougars and wolves that become a nuisance to areas settled by humans?" Dr Stevens questioned.

_He did said wolves...and that's close to were-wolves, isn't it? So if I agree with him, I'm not technically lying, right?_

"Right," Sam agreed his mind tripping back to that night at the cabin and the horrible things that demon had done to his brother right in front of his eyes. As long as Sam lived he knew he'd never be able to wipe those awful images from his brain. "And a few hunts back Dean had a really close call. He got more 'up close and personal' with our prey than we'd planned on and barely came out of it with his life. The fresh scars on his chest are testament to just how nasty things got. The doctor that saved his life gave him the Percocet prescription. He said that Dean would need them for a lot longer than he was willing to take them. After the first bottle, he'd refused to take any more and we'd just stuffed the other bottle into our bags. I know Dean. He's physically _and_ mentally tough. He'd never do anything stupid like suicide. He must have been having some pretty intense pain for quite a while to have taken all of those pills."

"Well, that does explain his injuries, I must say." It was obvious to Sam that Dr. Stevens was still a bit dubious and planned to cover his ass anyway. "I still think, since we're not sure just when and how much of the Percocet Dean has consumed, that we should be prudent and get a drug screen on him…maybe even give him some Narcan. That's a medication that helps to reverse the sedating effects of opiate narcotics like those found in Percocet. If he's overdosed, either accidentally or purposefully, the Narcan should help. If it doesn't, we'll have to look elsewhere for the root of Dean's symptoms."

Sam just shook his head in agreement. He still didn't like the doctor's continued inference that Dean may have tried committing suicide, but at least the man now seemed willing to look for _other_ reasons behind Dean's symptoms.

"You'll have to excuse me. I've got to get back to Dean and get some more testing ordered. I'll let you know as soon as we have more information." With that, the Brit turned on his heel and walked quickly back into the emergency department.

Sam and Gordy once again settled into their respective chairs to wait for more information. Gordy popped out the cell phone he'd grabbed from the living room coffee table before they had sped away from the farm and dialed his home number.

"We don't really know much, but I'm sure Brenda's worried sick. Guess I best call home and bring her up to speed on what little we know."

* * *

**To be continued...**


	8. Doctor, Doctor gimme the news

**Disclaimer: **I once thought I owned Sam and Dean...but then I woke up. No infringement, just fun.

**From the previous chapter:**

"_Well, that does explain his injuries, I must say." It was obvious to Sam that Dr. Stevens was still a bit dubious and planned to cover his ass anyway. "I still think, since we're not sure just when and how much of the Percocet Dean has consumed, that we should be prudent and get a drug screen on him…maybe even give him some Narcan. That's a medication that helps to reverse the sedating effects of opiate narcotics like those found in Percocet. If he's overdosed, either accidentally or purposefully, the Narcan should help. If it doesn't, we'll have to look elsewhere for the root of Dean's symptoms."_

_Sam just shook his head in agreement. He still didn't like the doctor's continued inference that Dean may have tried committing suicide, but at least the man now seemed willing to look for other reasons behind Dean's symptoms._

"_You'll have to excuse me. I've got to get back to Dean and get some more testing ordered. I'll let you know as soon as we have more information." With that, the Brit turned on his heel and walked quickly back into the emergency department._

_Sam and Gordy once again settled into their respective chairs to wait for more information. Gordy popped out the cell phone he'd grabbed from the living room coffee table before they had sped away from the farm and dialed his home number._

"_We don't really know much, but I'm sure Brenda's worried sick. Guess I best call home and bring her up to speed on what little we know."_

* * *

**Chapter 8: Doctor, Doctor…gimme the news…**

Dr. Stevens had been gone for a time when he returned, clipboard in hand. Sam was so tired he didn't even bother to stand this time.

"I don't know if this will make you feel better or not, Sam, but we gave your brother two milligrams of Narcan through his IV. There was no change in his symptoms so we followed it up with an additional two milligram dose three minutes later, just to be certain. Again, there was no change."

When Sam didn't speak up, Gordy dove in with his question. "So, doc, just what exactly does that mean?"

"Well, when coupled with the fact that Dean's drug screen showed only a trace of narcotics, it means that he didn't have enough Percocet in his system to be causing his symptoms. Basically, it confirms what Sam has been asserting…that Dean has not overdosed. In fact, it suggests the twenty-eight Percocet tablets had been taken stretched out over a fairly long period…and probably none within the past eight to twelve hours."

Once again, Gordy was the one questioning the middle-aged physician. "So where does that leave us now?"

"That's why I'm here. Sam, I need your permission to do a spinal tap on Dean. Although he doesn't have a fever, some of Dean's symptoms are suggestive of meningitis and the tap would help us rule that out. The spinal tap involves passing a thin needle into the sac that surrounds Dean's spinal column and extracting some of the fluid that cushions the brain and spinal column from injury. Once that's completed and the spinal fluid has been sent to the lab for analysis, we need to send him off for a CT of his head.

Sam looked up with bleary eyes. "Is there a chance that the spinal tap could leave him paralyzed?"

"I won't sugar-coat things, Sam. It's rare, but paralysis _is_ one of the risks. But, when done correctly, the test is very safe. We'll numb an area on his lower back with Lidocaine and the needle will be passed between two vertebrae, beyond the point where the actual spinal column ends. It's extremely rare to penetrate or injure the spinal column. If you're in agreement with the testing, I need you to sign these consent forms."

Sam grabbed the clipboards from the physician and scribbled his first name and fraudulent last name where the doctor had indicated by placing "X's". He handed them back, looked into the doctor's eyes and begged, "Please, Dr. Stevens, can I see him now? He's the only family I've got. I need to let him know I'm here…that I haven't left him."

The haunted, fearful look in the young man's eyes melted the older physician's resolve. "Alright…but just for the briefest of moments. It's extremely important that we act fast."

* * *

A gray-haired nurse had lead Sam to the curtained cubicle that contained his brother. Even before she'd pushed the curtain back just far enough for him to enter, Sam had already heard the now familiar pained moans. Stepping inside, he could see that Dean's body still twisted in response to the agony he was experiencing. A younger nurse standing at Dean's bedside, jotting various notes into Dean's chart, stopped writing when she saw Sam enter and, laying her pen down, gestured for him to come closer. 

"We had to restrain Dean's arms. He was in danger of hurting himself due to his thrashing and had tried pulling his IV out several times. We just couldn't afford to lose the venous access in case he took a turn for the worse ." She placed an arm tenderly around Sam's sagging shoulders. "We're doing everything we can for him. There's not much time before they'll be ready to do the tap, so I'll give you a few minutes with him."

At that, the nurse left the two brothers alone.

"Dean…I'm not sure you can understand me…I just…well, um…they're not real sure what's going on yet…they, uh…they're going to run a few more tests…and, well…they won't let me stay with you for much longer…but, I, um…I haven't left you…_won't_ leave you…and, uh…I hope...I hope you know I love you."

There, he'd said it. If Dean was more alert and conscious of what was going on around him, he'd probably be puking at the chick-flick moment to which he'd just been subjected. Dean hated that kind of stuff, but considering the circumstances, Sam didn't really care. He reached up and gently grasped Dean's hand just as the nurse returned.

Sam squeezed Dean's hand lightly, really not wanting to let go. "Ok, Dean. Well, it looks like they're ready to find out just what it is that makes you tick, so I've got to go. I'll be out in the waiting area when you're done."

The nurse unceremoniously ushered Sam from the room. "Go grab a bite to eat, get some coffee and try to relax. We'll come for you when the testing is done."

Sam chuckled inwardly. _The last thing I'm going to be able to do is relax._

_

* * *

_

"Have you heard anything more?" The familiar voice of Brenda Hoover floated across the waiting room.

"No," Sam intoned, and then followed up with, "When did you get here?"

"Just a few minutes ago. I had our closest neighbor, Elaine, bring me. I was going completely nuts at home. I know I can't do anything here, but at least I'm nearby…and I can keep my eye on you, Sam."

"I'm doing alright," Sam protested tiredly.

"Yeah. I can see that by the dark circles under your eyes and the exhausted look of you." Brenda settled into the seat to Sam's right while her husband, Gordy, occupied the seat to Sam's left. "Don't forget you've got to take care of yourself, too. You know Dean will be angry if he wakes up to find you've gotten sick worrying over him."

Gordy was shaking his head in agreement. "That's what I've been telling him, but do you think he listens to me?"

At that moment, Dr. Stevens appeared in the cramped waiting area and Sam, Gordy and Brenda all looked up with expectant and hopeful eyes.

"Good news, folks. The spinal tap showed Dean's spinal fluid to be clear to the naked eye and his intracranial pressure is within normal limits. We still have to wait for the lab analysis of the fluid to conclusively rule out the possibility of meningitis, but the fact that the fluid appears to be clear certainly makes that a slim possibility. We also got a wet reading…um, preliminary reading…on Dean's head CT from the Radiologist and he's not seeing anything that concerns him. It's standard procedure for another reading to be done tomorrow as a 'double-check', of sorts, but it's uncommon for readings to change."

A collective sigh emanated from the assembled group, but Sam was the one to voice their remaining concern. "So if he didn't overdose on the Percocet and he doesn't have meningitis or anything unusual on his CT scan, then what _is_ going on?"

* * *

**To be continued...(Yes...I know it was short. But, if y'all are lucky, I'll get another chapter up later today and we'll find out what's been going on with Dean.)**


	9. Sister Morphine

**Disclaimer: **See Chapter 1.

**A/N (Trivia): **For those of you that don't recognize it, this chapter is titled after the 1971 Rolling Stones song of the same name about a man desperately pleading for someone to relieve his agony by giving him Morphine. It's from the "Sticky Fingers" album. Coincidentally, "Sister Morphine" is one of only a few Rolling Stones songs that credits a non-band member as co-songwriter. On this song that person was Mick Jagger's then-girlfriend, Marianne Faithfull.

**From the previous chapter:**

"_Good news, folks. The spinal tap showed Dean's spinal fluid to be clear to the naked eye and his intracranial pressure is within normal limits. We still have to wait for the lab analysis of the fluid to conclusively rule out the possibility of meningitis, but the fact that the fluid appears to be clear certainly makes that a slim possibility. We also got a wet reading…um, preliminary reading…on Dean's head CT from the Radiologist and he's not seeing anything that concerns him. It's standard procedure for another reading to be done tomorrow as a 'double-check', of sorts, but it's uncommon for readings to change."_

_A collective sigh emanated from the assembled group, but Sam was the one to voice their remaining concern. "So if he didn't overdose on the Percocet and he doesn't have meningitis or anything unusual on his CT scan, then what is going on?"_

_

* * *

_

**Chapter 9: Sister Morphine**

"Interestingly enough," Dr. Stevens explained, " after the testing was done and we were certain what we _weren't_ dealing with, I left orders with the nurses to start Dean on a titrated Morphine IV drip. In essence, as long as Dean was showing signs of pain, his dose of Morphine would be increased by a set amount every five minutes until we achieved a dose that offered him relief. It took _three_ times the amount of Morphine the average person needs before we got Dean where he was comfortable enough to communicate with us."

"Wow," Brenda breathed. "Dean must have been having some incredibly intense pain for him to need that much medication."

"Yes, it was," the English doctor agreed. "Once Dean was able to tell us just what he was experiencing, we were able to make a definitive diagnosis. He told me he's been taking the Percocet off and on all week and it's not surprising that it wasn't all that helpful. Dean's suffering from what's called Trigeminal Neuralgia, or TN."

An anxious look returned to Sam's face. "Is that serious?"

"It's not life-threatening, if that's what you mean. But as you saw, the condition can be quite painful and debilitating. Even the slightest whisper of a breeze on the face of someone suffering from TN might elicit excruciating pain."

A distant look appeared on Sam's face. "So that's why he screamed when I touched him…and every time he was jarred the slightest bit."

The physician nodded and continued, "You weren't kidding when you said Dean has a high tolerance for pain if he's been suffering from this all week and is just now seeking medical attention. The pain from TN is so intense that it's sometimes referred to as the 'Suicide Disease' because sufferers have been known to commit suicide rather than live with the painful effects of the condition."

The doctor paused briefly to allow the information he'd imparted thus far to sink in.

"Anyway, Trigeminal Neuralgia is usually seen in people over the age of fifty, but can strike at any age…even in childhood. It can sometimes be associated with tumors, but is most often noted in conjunction with a congenitally enlarged loop of arteries or veins that presses against the Trigeminal nerve. The pressure on the nerve results in severe headaches and pain that shoots along the nerve tract. Frequently, victims of TN refer to the pain as something akin to a stabbing or electric shock. Others have a searing, burning-type pain. As I said, though, the Radiologist isn't seeing either a tumor or an enlarged vessel on your brother's scans."

"Why did Dean have it, then…and how do we treat it?" Gordy asked the question that had been on everyone's lips and they all eagerly awaited a reply.

"Sometimes it's hard to say just what it is that stirs this condition up. Some researchers even theorize that trauma to the area can precipitate the first attack. And considering the injuries Dean received recently, that may very well be its cause."

"Huh?" Brenda stood there with a dumbfounded look on her face. "What injuries?"

"Never mind, hon," Gordy interjected, "…we'll explain it later."

"Either way, I've asked my friend, Dr. Conner, to come review Dean's case. Tom's a neurologist and he specializes in conditions such as Dean's. He'll be able to set Dean up with an appropriate course of treatment. Now, I know you're all eager to see him, but I can't allow more than two people at his bedside at one time so…"

The dangling sentence was clearly Dr. Stevens way of asking the group to chose which two would be first to see Dean. Sam felt horrible excluding Brenda, but Gordy had been the one to rush them to the hospital and had supported Sam throughout the long hours of waiting.

"Brenda, would you mind if Gordy went back with me?" Sam threw the woman a sheepish look.

"Heaven's no, child. You just be sure to let that boy know his little stunt today has aged me by fifteen years. He's in for a piece of my mind once I'm able to see him. I didn't have any gray hairs until you two boys showed up!"

"Don't you worry, Brenda," Sam assured her. "He'll be getting a piece of my mind, as well for trying to hide this from me."

* * *

The head of Dean's bed was propped up only slightly. The nurses had told Dean he shouldn't have it any higher because of the possibility of it causing a post-spinal tap headache.

_Yeah, like I don't already have a headache_.

Sam and Gordy filed into the ER cubicle Dean had been returned to after his testing. Dean rested on the stretcher bed with just his boxers on and a sheet pulled to his hips. The amount of sweating he'd done while trapped by his pain had quickly soaked through multiple gowns and the nursing staff had just given up putting them on.

Numerous scars criss-crossed Dean's bare chest. The newest batch, a raised mosaic of angry looking red lines, had been courtesy of the demon that had possessed their father at the cabin. Large areas of vivid blue bruising were interwoven amongst the rope-like scars. Gordy inhaled suddenly.

"Oh, my God," he muttered softly. He knew he shouldn't be staring, but not believing what his eyes were showing him, he couldn't tear his eyes away. He was amazed that Dean had even been able to get out of bed with those injuries, never mind work so hard at the farm. And not once had he given any indication that he was less than one-hundred percent fit.

Although the medical staff had warned the two visitors that Dean's Morphine drip would make him groggy and slur his speech and slow his responses slightly, neither had quite been prepared when Dean's voice had come out so thickly. Even completely snockered with booze, Dean had never sounded, well, quite so drunk.

"Hey, guuuyyyys," Dean slurred out, "…you really should try thish Morphinnnnne shtuff sometime. It's pretty nicesh."

"Oh, boy, Dean…" Sam chortled, "…if I wasn't so mad at you for trying to hide this from me, I…"

Sam had tried very hard to be stern with Dean, but Dean's interjected comment of, "What you talkin' 'bout, Willish?" had dissolved Sam into waves of incredulous laughter. If Dean had known he was quoting catch phrases from sappy 80's TV programs, he would have found the nearest hole and crawled into it from the embarrassment.

Sam was just getting ready to inform Dean that anything embarrassing he said or did could, and would be, used against him at a later time, preferably when Dean was sober enough to appreciate its full impact. He missed his opportunity, though, when a doctor with salt and pepper hair pushed the curtain aside.

He extended his hand to both Sam and Gordy, shaking each man's hand in turn. "I'm Dr. Conner, the staff Neurologist. I've had an opportunity to review Dean's chart, the results of his tests and the treatment he's received from Dr. Stevens. I've also interviewed and examined Dean, himself, and concur with Dr. Stevens findings. At this point, taking into consideration the extreme pain he was experiencing and the sheer amount of drugs it took to bring it under control, we've started Dean out on a fairly generous dose of a medication called Tegretol."

"Isn't that a seizure medication?" Gordy caught Sam flashing him a questioning glance and he shrugged in response. "I've got a nephew on that for his epilepsy."

"Yes, Tegretol is often used for seizures but it also has been shown to work well for TN, as well. I'm going to be placing Dean on two hundred milligrams per day, divided in two doses and increased by two hundred milligrams per day until we can get the TN into remission and his pain is relieved. Considering the extreme attack he had today, I'm guessing we'll need to go as high as twelve-hundred milligrams per day before he get him pain free."

Sam was nodding his understanding when the doctor continued on. "Dean has expressed a desire to return home tonight and I think that's a reasonable plan, provided he hangs out here with us for another hour while we monitor him due to the high dose of Morphine he received. We've already given him his first dose of Tegretol, but I'll be writing up an instruction sheet and sending you home with some more pills to get him started on in the morning until you can get to a pharmacy. I'd like to see Dean again tomorrow for a brief check-up. Do either of you have any questions?"

Sam and Gordy were shaking their heads 'no' when Dean piped up. "I'vfff got one for ya, doc. Where'sh the beef?"

Dr. Conner chuckled openly and patting Dean on the leg stated, "Yep, you gotta love that Morphine…"

* * *

**To be continued...**

**There you have it...Dean's been diagnosed...correctly?**


	10. Morning Has Broken

**Disclaimer: **See Chapter 1

**A/N: **Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter up today. Life kind of got in the way. Unfortunately, this chapter's very short and not action packed but it does help to move the story on towards the next few more interesting chapters. I'll treat you guys extra nice tomorrow, though, and post a couple chapters at once!

**From the previous chapter:**

_He extended his hand to both Sam and Gordy, shaking each man's hand in turn. "I'm Dr. Conner, the staff Neurologist. I've had an opportunity to review Dean's chart, the results of his tests and the treatment he's received from Dr. Stevens. I've also interviewed and examined Dean, himself, and concur with Dr. Stevens findings. At this point, taking into consideration the extreme pain he was experiencing and the sheer amount of drugs it took to bring it under control, we've started Dean out on a fairly generous dose of a medication called Tegretol."_

"_Isn't that a seizure medication?" Gordy caught Sam flashing him a questioning glance and he shrugged in response. "I've got a nephew on that for his epilepsy."_

"_Yes, Tegretol is often used for seizures but it also has been shown to work well for TN, as well. I'm going to be placing Dean on two hundred milligrams per day, divided in two doses and increased by two hundred milligrams per day until we can get the TN into remission and his pain is relieved. Considering the extreme attack he had today, I'm guessing we'll need to go as high as twelve-hundred milligrams per day before he get him pain free."_

_Sam was nodding his understanding when the doctor continued on. "Dean has expressed a desire to return home tonight and I think that's a reasonable plan, provided he hangs out here with us for another hour while we monitor him due to the high dose of Morphine he received. We've already given him his first dose of Tegretol, but I'll be writing up an instruction sheet and sending you home with some more pills to get him started on in the morning until you can get to a pharmacy. I'd like to see Dean again tomorrow for a brief check-up. Do either of you have any questions?"_

_Sam and Gordy were shaking their heads 'no' when Dean piped up. "I'vfff got one for ya, doc. Where'sh the beef?"_

_Dr. Conner chuckled openly and patting Dean on the leg stated, "Yep, you gotta love that Morphine…"_

* * *

**Chapter 10: Morning Has Broken**

**The morning following Dean's collapse**

Dean was still a bit groggy the next morning but the slurring of his speech had dissipated and he, thankfully, was no longer seemingly lost in the '80's, giggling at himself and spewing out lines from practically every lame TV program ever made. He awoke in a brightly lit, sun-filled room with floral wallpaper and lacey curtains at the windows.

When Dean had been discharged the prior evening, neither Brenda nor Gordy would hear of the boys going back to their motel room. Instead, they'd insisted that they stay with them at the farm.

"Dean needs to get some rest, Sam," Brenda had reasoned, "And so do you. The only way that's going to happen is if there's someone around to watch out for Dean while you're sleeping, too. If you go back to that motel room, you'll end up staying up all night for days on end worried that something will happen to Dean if you allow yourself to get some sleep…and I won't have it. You're staying with us and that's final."

Sam knew Brenda was right. He _would_ have been obsessing over Dean and most likely would have gotten little to no sleep. As it was, even staying with Brenda and Gordy, Sam was finding it hard to sleep knowing that Dean might have another attack similar to the one he'd had yesterday. But he knew he would rest a bit easier once Dean had had his check-up with Dr. Conner.

* * *

Although Sam had agreed to him and Dean staying with the Hoovers and allowing them help to care for Dean, Sam was still determined to help Gordy with the feeding and milking. It was during the morning's milking chores that Sam fell victim to a case of the giggles.

"What?" Gordy questioned.

Sam was washing the cow's udder off with a special antiseptic rinse in preparation for applying the automated, vacuum milking machine. "This just got me to thinking about Dean and his 'Where's the beef?' comment last night. Anyway, he should be the one out here doing this. He's the breast man of the family."

Gordy snickered at the memory of a plastered Dean just jabbering away happily about nothing in particular during the ride home from the hospital. Sam's slightly off-colored joke regarding the cow's udder hadn't slipped past him, either. "So Dean's a bit of a ladies' man, is he?"

"Oh, yeah," Sam replied, "I don't think there's a female in Ida County that's safe from him. Except that before he got sick he seemed to have his eye on one particular girl."

"Oh, who might that be?"

"I think Dean had told me her name was Marissa something-or-other." Sam paused while he tried to think back to what her last name was. "Timkis…that's it. Marissa Timkis."

"Huh," Gordy grunted. "I know just about everyone in this county and I can't recall any Timkis' here."

"Dean said she'd just recently come to the area. Quite the knock-out red-head," Sam confessed. "I gotta give him this much, when it comes to beautiful women, Dean's got good taste."

* * *

Dean was sitting up in bed, his shirtless torso supported by the heavy oak headboard of the bed. His chest had been bared since yesterday because wearing a shirt had caused him to be too warm and the profuse sweating would start all over again.

Although Brenda had seen the impressive looking scars on Dean's chest last evening when they'd brought him home from the hospital, the sight of them still shocked her. Sam and Gordy had walked her through Sam's explanation of how Dean had acquired them, but she still couldn't imagine the ordeal he must have been through. She thought she'd been doing a good job of hiding her consternation over the graphic display of Dean's injuries, but realized it was woefully unsuccessful when Dean spoke up.

"You know, if it bothers you," Dean said self consciously, not even lifting his head when he spoke, "I can put a shirt on." He kept his head low and peeked timidly from under his sandy-brown hair in his best approximation of the late Princess Diana's, 'Shy Di' pose.

"Oh, honey…I didn't mean to make you feel bad. It's just that, seeing them, I realize just how close your brother must have come to losing you. You boys have come to mean so much to me and, after finding you in the stockyard yesterday and thinking you weren't long for this world…well, I guess I'm finding it a bit hard."

"Yeah, well, I've been wanting to talk with you about that," Dean confided, squeezing his eyes shut against a stabbing flash of pain. "I gather I was pretty messed up last night with all the drugs I had on board and I never got a chance to say 'thanks'."

"I think you gave me more than my share of gray hairs, but I'll forgive you," Brenda chided jokingly.

"Thanks," Dean said, wincing noticeably as a low groan escaped his lips as he tried to grin.

"You're still having a lot of pain, aren't you?" Brenda inquired. Her mothering instincts kicking into high gear, she quickly added, "And I want the God's honest truth, young man. None of this 'stiff upper lip' crap you pulled this past week."

Dean sighed heavily. He hated to admit what he saw as a weakness, but Brenda had learned to read him so well that he knew she'd be able to tell if he tried to downplay anything. "Yeah. It's still pretty bad…across my cheekbone, mostly. But it's better than it was yesterday."

"I know you have an appointment with Dr. Conner later today, but I think we should go ahead and increase your Tegretol dose anyway," Brenda asserted. "He said if you weren't getting relief that we should do that."

She held out the pills and Dean scooped them up, downing them with several large gulps of water.

"Now," Brenda commanded, "I think you ought to get some more rest. We'll be sure to let you know when you need to get ready for your check up."

* * *

**To be continued...**


	11. Situation Normal All Fouled Up

**Disclaimer: **You can go all the way back to Chapter 1 or…you can just believe me when I tell you that I'm getting nothing out of this other than my own personal satisfaction.

**A/N: **This story is completely un-beta'd. I try very hard not to allow mistakes to slide through, but should that happen they are mine and only mine!

**From the previous chapter:**

_"You're still having a lot of pain, aren't you?" Brenda inquired. Her mothering instincts kicking into high gear, she quickly added, "And I want the God's honest truth, young man. None of this 'stiff upper lip' crap you pulled this past week."_

_Dean sighed heavily. He hated to admit what he saw as a weakness, but Brenda had learned to read him so well that he knew she'd be able to tell if he tried to downplay anything. "Yeah. It's still pretty bad…across my cheekbone, mostly. But it's better than it was yesterday."_

_"I know you have an appointment with Dr. Conner later today, but I think we should go ahead and increase your Tegretol dose anyway," Brenda asserted. "He said if you weren't getting relief that we should do that."_

_She held out the pills and Dean scooped them up, downing them with several large gulps of water._

_"Now," Brenda commanded, "I think you ought to get some more rest. We'll be sure to let you know when you need to get ready for your check up."_

**

* * *

**

**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

**Chapter 11: Situation Normal All Fouled Up**

Brenda and Gordy had been insistent that Dean and Sam continue to stay with them. Brenda had rationalized their continued stay with the Hoovers by saying that she was enjoying the chance to mother them and Gordy was getting some much needed farm help.

The constant mothering and forced bed rest had had Dean going stir-crazy almost immediately. By the third day, he was at the point that he thought he'd explode if he couldn't get up and around again and back to doing something constructive.

He had finally worn Sam and Gordy down on the subject and cajoled his way back into helping with some of the easier farm jobs. Dean would have been happier jumping right back into things full swing, but Sam had stood his ground and Dean was just happy to be out from under the constant scrutiny and fussiness that had surrounded him since he'd collapsed.

The headaches and the shooting pains in Dean's cheek and jaw had diminished slightly but certainly hadn't gone away, so he'd gradually increased his dose of Tegretol from the original two-hundred milligrams per day to twelve-hundred milligrams per day, with the approval of his Neurologist.

On the tenth day, he'd had another recheck appointment with Dr. Conner. He knew that Dean had topped out his Tegretol dose but the physician felt that the longer Dean was at that dose, the more effective the pain relief would become. Still, he wanted the boys to remain in Holstein until he was certain Dean wouldn't relapse.

Two weeks had gone by without any problems when Dean woke with some lightheadedness. It didn't seem to be a big deal and he didn't want to go getting everyone all stirred up again, so Dean decided to do what Dean did best, he threw up his protective walls, internalized everything and kept quiet.

By lunchtime, Dean could feel tremors in his hands and he was having trouble holding onto things. It seemed as though Dean's muscles had gained a mind of their own all of the sudden. His brain was telling the muscles to contract and hold onto something and the muscles either loosened, losing hold of the object, or they completely overreacted and crushed it. Such was the fate of several of the eggs he'd tried collecting from the henhouse.

Dean had literally stumbled through most of his day, but had done a fair enough job of covering up for most of it when things went horribly wrong. He'd been trying to get himself an evening snack and drink when he reached out to grasp a drinking cup and his arm jerked uncontrollably forward. Before he could stop the limb's forward motion, it had knocked the plastic cup from the table with a clatter.

"Dammit!"

At the sound of Dean's invective, Brenda turned away from the kitchen counter and the clean dishes she'd been putting away, in time to see Dean bending down, reaching for the errant cup. As he bent over, violent muscle spasms came in torrents that flared through his arms, legs and back. Dean was desperately trying to get his muscles to maintain his balance, but they seemed to have lost their connection to his brain. He lurched forward, his right cheek slamming into the leg of the kitchen table, and then landed face down with a sickening thud.

Even though he was sprawled on the floor, Dean was still making a valiant effort to retrieve the cup. The only problem was that the continued jerky movements of his limbs had been thwarting all of his efforts. In frustration and disgust, Dean gave up on the cup and, alternatively, attempted to pry himself from the floor by clawing at the kitchen table leg and trying to pull himself up onto the closest chair.

Dean was concentrating so hard on getting his uncooperative and uncoordinated muscles to agree to let his brain command the show that he was only vaguely aware of Brenda rushing to his side. "Sam, Gordy…come quick!"

The rushing sound of feet pounding across the hardwood floors of the farmhouse had announced the arrival of the brawny farmer, followed closely behind by Dean's younger brother. "What the hell?" Sam gawked in bewilderment at his older brother's spasmodic attempts to rise. "Help me get him up."

Gordy and Sam carefully reached down and, after each had hooked an arm under one of Dean's, they assisted him to a standing position. Well, it was standing if that's what you _called_ it, anyway. Dean's muscles continued to buck and twitch with the effort of trying to hold his body upright. His efforts reminded Gordy of the quivering and unstable attempts of a newborn calf as it tried to gain its feet for the first time.

Brenda shoved one of the straight-backed kitchen chairs behind Dean and the two men gingerly deposited him on its seat. The room spun in front of Dean's eyes and he was still having problems controlling the paroxysms that blasted through his arms and legs.

"I think we better call Dr. Conner," Brenda offered. "I read in the pamphlets that the Pharmacist had given us that Dean's Tegretol can cause symptoms like these. Doc had said Dean's on a pretty high dose. Maybe the medication is finally kicking in, big time, and he's having a bad reaction to the dose."

Brenda quickly dialed Dr. Conner's office number while Sam tried to get Dean to describe for them what he was feeling. Gordy had gotten the terrycloth towel from its hook, packed it with a few ice cubes and held it to the oozing abrasion on Dean's right cheek.

"Are you having pain anywhere?" Sam was already looking over Dean the best he could with the continued jerky movements of Dean's extremities. "What about your head?"

"N-n-nothing worse t-t-than it h-h-has b-b-been," Dean stammered out. "I'm just f-f-feeling kinda diz-z-z-zy and my vision's all s-s-screwed up."

Brenda had explained Dean's symptoms to Dr. Conner and finished up with, "…and now he said he's dizzy and his vision's not right."

Gordy and Sam eyed Brenda ardently as she listened to the doctor's instructions. Each was hoping to glean some clue from Brenda's facial expressions and gestures as to what the doctor thought had happened, but she wasn't exactly an open book.

"Dr. Conner says it sounds like Dean is having trouble tolerating the continued high dose of Tegretol," Brenda explained after hanging up the phone. "He wants us to stop the Tegretol for two days then recheck in his office. He's pretty confident these symptoms will clear quickly and he'll just need to keep his Tegretol dose low and add another medicine so Dean can get the pain relief without the side effects of the higher dose."

* * *

The trip up the stairs to the bedroom had been quite challenging, to say the least. Dean seemed to completely lack muscle strength and coordination and Sam had taken to calling out, "Left, right, left, right…" like some drill instructor, in an effort to keep Dean and his rebellious muscles focused into enough of a cohesive team to climb the thirteen steps to the bedrooms. 

The dizziness and double vision had started to play havoc with Dean's stomach. The trio had no more than reached the top step when Dean announced, "I think I'm gonna h-h-hurl."

Gordy and Sam all but dragged Dean into the bathroom and steadied him as he knelt in front of the commode. Seconds later, Dean began heaving viciously and deposited the contents of his stomach in the bowl. He wretched a few more times before surrendering to exhaustion and leaned limply against the nearby tub.

Once they were certain Dean was done vomiting, Sam and Gordy's strong arms again cradled Dean, aiding him in the remainder of his trip to the bedroom. He sank gratefully onto the bed's soft surface and wordlessly allowed Sam to remove his shoes and jeans. He lay there on the bed in his T-shirt and boxer shorts, an occasional muscle spasm shattering the calm. Sam, Gordy and Brenda were close by, staring worriedly at him. It hadn't taken long before Dean's tortured body had drifted off to sleep.

* * *

**The next morning**

Sam had slept very little during the night. Each time he'd allowed his eyes to close, his mind confronted him with the awful images of his brother struggling to get up; struggling to control his own muscles; struggling even to speak. Finally, Sam had just given up on the prospect of sleep all together.

Once Dean had tried to stop moving and had fallen asleep, the tremors had ceased. If he was disturbed in any way, though, the spasms returned, not abating until he'd been quiet again for several minutes.

Brenda brought a breakfast tray to Dean so that he could eat in bed. Sam had laid a towel across the chest area of Dean's shirt, just in case he dropped or spilled anything, and then hesitantly left when Dean insisted on privacy. Dean had wanted the dignity of attempting breakfast without spectators. The last thing he wanted was a baby-sitter.

Things had been slow going for Dean since most of the food dropped from the utensils as his hand jerked and twitched its way towards his mouth. Only a few bites actually made it into his mouth, before Dean gave up in frustration. He decided he'd rather go hungry than deal with the humiliation of having someone feed him.

Lunch had gone much the same way and so had supper. By evening, Dean was absolutely exhausted. Somewhere in the back of his head he realized the symptoms weren't diminishing like Dr. Conner said they would.

* * *

Sam had noticed decided changes in Dean as the day progressed. It seemed the farther the sun crept downward towards the horizon, the more Dean went with it. It was odd, but Dean's muscles seemed less and less capable of performing their jobs with every hour that passed. It seemed the more exhausted the muscles were from a day of trying to maintain Dean's mobility, the more uncooperative they became. 

Dean usually liked to watch action programs on television. In particular, he liked the police reality show, "Cops". "See, Sam," Dean had announced to his younger sibling a few months back. He had pointed at the screen where some half-stoned chick was trying hard to avoid incarceration by coming on to the arresting police officer. She didn't seem to even notice that the cop was completely repulsed by her. "See, this is what I mean. That chick there…damn, she looks like she's been beaten with the 'ugly stick'…she's so frickin' trashed she doesn't realize she's making a complete ass out of herself on national TV. You'd never see some self-respecting demon doing something like that. People are just crazy. That's what makes this show such a gas…watching people being idiots."

Tonight, when Sam had tuned the TV to the channel for "Cops", Dean had seemed mystified by the on-screen action, especially when there was an interruption for a commercial. It was like Dean couldn't keep track from moment to moment what had taken place.

Sam had tried talking with Dean a little, but even that seemed difficult for him. There were long gaps in the conversation when Dean seemed to be searching for the right words. Occasionally, Dean put the words of his sentences in the wrong order and at other times, he couldn't even finish his sentences.

_Dean's been without the Tegretol for twenty-four hours now. Something's not right. If he's not better by tomorrow morning, I'm taking him back to the hospital._


	12. Downward Spiral

**Disclaimer: **See Chapter 1

**From the previous chapter:**

_**Tonight, when Sam had tuned the TV to the channel for "Cops", Dean had seemed mystified by the on-screen action, especially when there was an interruption for a commercial. It was like Dean couldn't keep track from moment to moment what had taken place.**_

_**Sam had tried talking with Dean a little, but even that seemed difficult for him. There were long gaps in the conversation when Dean seemed to be searching for the right words. Occasionally, Dean put the words of his sentences in the wrong order and at other times, he couldn't even finish his sentences.**_

_Dean's been without the Tegretol for twenty-four hours now. Something's not right. If he's not better by tomorrow morning, I'm taking him back to the hospital._

_

* * *

_

**Chapter 12: Downward Spiral**

Staying up all night watching over Dean had given Sam more than enough time to think…actually, maybe, too much. As he thought back through the events of the day and how Dean's spasming muscles had made mobility problematic, Sam had realized a sense of déjà vu. The whole scenario had reminded him of one of his friends from Stanford.

Rob had told him that he'd begun having odd muscle sensations during his last year at high school. Within months, he'd started stumbling and having trouble with his balance and coordination. A trip to his family doctor had the especially alert physician suspecting Rob was showing signs of Multiple Sclerosis. Despite his diagnosis, Rob had enrolled at Stanford to follow his dreams. But by his second year, right before Dean had come to Stanford for Sam, Rob had had to drop out because his symptoms had progressed to a point so similar to Dean's that it was unnerving.

Sam had spent half the night drenched in cold sweat thinking about the prospect that Dean might have MS like Rob. Since he'd left Stanford and been traveling with his brother, Sam had lost contact with most of his Stanford friends. The last he'd heard about Rob, he was confined to a wheelchair. His Dad had suffered a heart attack prior to Rob's diagnosis and it had becoming increasingly more difficult for them to care for Rob at home until they'd finally been forced to place Rob in a nursing home.

The thought of something like that happening to Dean was so abhorrent to Sam that he thought he would be sick. At one point in the middle of the night, he'd dashed across the hallway to hang his head over the same commode that his brother had done just a few hours before. Sam fought back the queasy feeling and, realizing he'd left Dean alone, he had rushed back to his brother's room.

Sam's mind was reeling a mile a minute. _Could Dean have MS?_ Rob had told him that his doctors had said his MS had progressed fairly rapidly and _his_ symptoms had worsened over the course of a couple of years. Dean, on the other hand, had only begun showing symptoms a couple of _weeks_ ago. Anyway, Rob's diagnosis had been confirmed by his CT and MRI scans. Dean's doctors had said they hadn't seen anything wrong with the scans they'd done on Dean.

Any hope that Sam had of things improving with just a simple medication reduction had quickly been dashed when Dean finally woke. He was still plagued by the spastic movements he'd shown during the night and continued having trouble carrying on a conversation. He kept losing track of what was being said and still searched for the right words.

It was still very early, but Sam could contain himself no longer. He told Dean he'd be right back and walked the few doors down to Brenda and Gordy's room and rapped his knuckles softly on the closed door.

"Hey, Gordy," Sam greeted him apologetically, "I'm sorry for getting you up so early, but I was wondering if you could help me get Dean's clothes on. He's not any better this morning. If anything, he's a little worse, and I'd like to get him back over to the hospital as soon as I can…and I can't get him dressed by myself."

"Sure, Sam. Just let me get changed."

* * *

The drive back to the ER had been quite a bit more leisurely than their last trip there. The potholes were still an issue for Dean, not because they necessarily worsened his headache, but because the sudden shifting in Dean's position brought on more episodes of muscle spasticity.

Once they'd arrived again at the ER, the nursing staff helped to assist Dean to settle himself in a bed. Dr. Stevens was on duty again and, since Dr. Conner had yet to arrive, briefly examined Dean to ascertain that he was in no immediate danger. The British doctor had stood back watching the uncoordinated muscle fasciculation Dean experienced during his clumsy attempt at pulling his T-shirt off over his head. In the end, Sam had needed to finish the job for him.

When Dr. Stevens had finished his brief exam he allowed his gaze to roll over Dean with a studied intensity. Dean's increased confusion and lack of coordination bothered the physician deeply. He couldn't put his finger on anything definite, but distant memories niggled at the back of the Brit's brain.

"In order to save a bit of time, Tom, Dr. Conner that is, gave me the go ahead to order a Tegretol level for Dean. Depending on where his level falls on the test, we'll have a better idea just how much we need to adjust his medication. Dr. Conner will be down in just a few minutes to examine Dean, as well."

Sam nodded his consent. "Ok, thanks, doc."

No more than five minutes after Dr. Stevens departed, Dr. Conner arrived.

"I wanted to slip in and give Dean a good once-over before the lab got here," the neurologist explained. Dr. Conner extended his right index finger out in front of himself. "Dean, I want you to use your right hand and touch your index finger to mine."

Dean's attempt at complying with the doctor's request resulted in the jerking movements of his right arm causing his finger to sail right on past Dr. Conner's outstretched one. Dean tried again and Sam winced as the event was repeated.

"That's ok, Dean," the medic reassured. "Now let's try it with the left hand."

Dean applied considerably more concentration to this attempt and his wobbling left arm had eventually succeeded in taking a circuitous route to touching his left index finger down onto the doctor's finger.

"Good, good. Now I'd like to see you walk a little for me."

With Sam's assistance, Dean climbed from the bed and, placing his feet to the floor, took a few furtive steps towards the kindly doctor.

The twitchy abnormality in the way in which Dean walked had almost given him the appearance of being a tin soldier or some kind of robot. Dr. Conner frowned imperceptibly at this, but continued on in a confident tone.

"Ok. One more test for you, Dean. I'm going to name three common objects. I want you to say them back to me. Then I'm going to leave for about 5 minutes. When I come back I'm going to ask you to tell me what those three objects were, ok?"

Dean shook his head slightly and tried to clear his muddled head enough to concentrate.

"Apricot…" Dr. Conner began.

Dr. Conner had pronounced the word as 'a-pricot' so Dean followed suit. "A-pricot…" repeated Dean.

"Car…"

"Car-r-r"

"Penny…"

"Penn-y."

"Ok, that's it Dean. I'll be back in five. No coaching from the sidelines, you two," Dr. Conner indicated with a wink to Sam and Gordy.

Sam followed Dr. Conner out the door. "What's that all about?"

"Sam, that's a mini version of a mental exam. It seems too unbelievably simple as to almost be laughable, but that's its genius. With just three easy words I can get a quick gauge of Dean's ability to process and remember things. Depending on how many he remembers, and if he can get them in the same order, I can tell a lot about how Dean's brain is functioning at this point."

Dr. Conner glanced at his watch. "Looks like time's just about up. Let's go see what our boy can do." The doctor gestured with his hand that Sam should enter the room ahead of him.

"Alright, Dean. I told you I'd be back to ask you about those things we talked about. Can you tell me what three things we named together?"

Sam prayed silently that Dean would suddenly laugh in the doctor's face and pop off with some snarky, bad-ass reply. Something like, _'What kind of idiot do you think I am there, Dr. Mengele? Of course, I remember…apricot, car, penny. It seems to me that if I've got to tell **you** what they are, you're the one with the problem, not me.'_ Yeah, that would be a rather typical Dean-like response.

Sam held his breath as he waited for the older boy to respond. It took a few minutes, but Dean finally spoke hesitantly. "Car…umm…uh…a…a…" Dean exhaled quickly giving the impression he was frustrated.

"Take your time, Dean," the medic interjected.

Sam was still holding his breath, but he was more hopeful now that Dean seemed on the right track.

Dean had gathered himself back together and started again. "Car…a…a…ape…yeah, ape…and…um…uh…"

"That's alright, Dean. Those were tough. Don't worry about it." The medic chanced a glance at his patient's companions and, noting their crestfallen and worried expressions, concluded with, "I'll be back in to talk with you once the blood results are back."

* * *

Within minutes a lab technician had materialized at Dean's bedside. Gordy had needed to steady Dean's arm for her as the quivering of his muscles was making it hard for her to accurately stick her needle into one of Dean's bulging veins. Once the tech left with her specimens, Gordy had slid his chair up close to the left side of Dean's bed. Sam had entrenched himself in a chair on Dean's right side and was gently holding his hand. In one way it bothered Sam that Dean hadn't pulled away. Sam knew that Dean had to be really sick to not shrink back from anything that could even remotely be considered a 'chick-flick' moment. On the other hand, the nearness of his older brother was comforting to Sam.

There was a forty-five minute wait for the blood test and the time ticked slowly past in silence. Soon, footsteps were heard coming in their direction and both Gordy and Sam swung their heads towards the door in expectation.

Sam was a bit surprised to see that Dr. Conner was accompanied by Dr. Stevens who had taken time away from his ER patients to return to Dean's room.

"Gentlemen." The voice that broke through the tension in the air belonged to Dr. Conner, the neurologist. "What do you say we step over to Dr. Stevens' office? These curtained cubicles don't offer much privacy."

"No," Sam stated firmly. "I'm not leaving my brother…and, anyway, whatever you've got to say, he needs to hear it, too." Sam wasn't sure just how much of the doctor's explanation Dean would absorb, but he felt he had the right to hear it.

* * *

**To be continued…**


	13. Just the Facts

**Disclaimer: **See the first chapter.

**From the previous chapter:**

_Within minutes a lab technician had materialized at Dean's bedside. Gordy had needed to steady Dean's arm for her as the quivering of his muscles was making it hard for her to accurately stick her needle into one of Dean's bulging veins. Once the tech left with her specimens, Gordy had slid his chair up close to the left side of Dean's bed. Sam had entrenched himself in a chair on Dean's right side and was gently holding his hand. In one way it bothered Sam that Dean hadn't pulled away. Sam knew that Dean had to be really sick to not shrink back from anything that could even remotely be considered a 'chick-flick' moment. On the other hand, the nearness of his older brother was comforting to Sam. _

_There was a forty-five minute wait for the blood test and the time ticked slowly past in silence. Soon, footsteps were heard coming in their direction and both Gordy and Sam swung their heads towards the door in expectation._

_Sam was a bit surprised to see that Dr. Conner was accompanied by Dr. Stevens who had taken time away from his ER patients to return to Dean's room._

"_Gentlemen." The voice that broke through the tension in the air belonged to Dr. Conner, the neurologist. "What do you say we step over to Dr. Stevens' office? These curtained cubicles don't offer much privacy."_

"_No," Sam stated firmly. "I'm not leaving my brother…and, anyway, whatever you've got to say, he needs to hear it, too." Sam wasn't sure just how much of the doctor's explanation Dean would absorb, but he felt he had the right to hear it._

**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

**Chapter 13: Just the Facts**

Sam, Gordy and Dean watched as Dr. Conner took a deep breath before beginning. "Sam, has your brother been outside the US in the past ten years or so? Canada? Europe? Especially England?"

Sam quickly searched back through his memories of what Dean had told him he'd been doing during those few years he'd escaped the hunting life by going off to Stanford. "No. Neither one of us has ever been outside the US. Why?"

The medic continued on without answering Sam's question. "Anyone in your family have a history of CJD?"

Sam looked puzzled. "What's CJD?"

Ignoring Sam's question, Dr. Stevens interjected with a question of his own. "Any chance that Dean's a vegetarian?"

Sam laughed lightly. "Dean? Yeah, right. I don't think Dean would know a vegetable if it bit him…oh, except for French fries. No, Dean lives on fast food hamburgers, M&M's and beer."

"Sam," Dr. Conner began once again, "You indicated on Dean's admission forms that your mother and father are deceased. Can I ask what from?"

Gordy watched as a grief-stricken look of devatation formed on Sam's young face. Sam didn't like talking about this, especially since he couldn't understand where all this questioning was going. His irritated reply came out tersely. "In a fire."

Realizing how angry it sounded, Sam softened his tone and continued on. "Our mother died in a fire…in my nursery. Dean was only four at the time. I was six months old. Dean…he, um…he saved me. He carried me from our burning house. If it wasn't for Dean, I'd have died that night, too."

"Your father, did he die in the fire?" Dr. Conner hated prying into such painful stuff but it was imperative in order to know his patient's complete medical history, including any hereditary problems.

"No," Sam explained, "Dad survived the fire. He'd been injured on the same hunt that Dean was attacked on a few months back. We were rushing to the hospital when our car was broadsided by a semi." Sam had a far away look about him and his next comments were barely whispered. "I was driving. Dad was killed and, between the injuries he'd sustained in the attack and then the auto accident, I almost lost Dean, too."

Neither the American doctor, the British doctor, nor Gordy had been ready for the emotional punch to the gut those revelations had produced.

Gordy leaned back in his seat and blew out the breath he'd been holding. That's twice now he'd learned some small piece of information about these boys that had proven to explain a lot. It's no wonder the boys were so close, why Sam had been so upset that he'd caused Dean to break down, why they always seemed to be looking out for each other. These boys had been through hell and there had been no one there for them but each other.

"What aren't you saying? Just where is all this questioning going? Why can't you just tell me what's wrong with my brother and how we're going to fix it?" Sam's voice had taken on a more stressed and desperate tone with each of his rapidly fired question.

Gordy could see that Sam was close to the breaking point if he didn't get some answers…and soon. "Look, Doc, I think Sam, here, would appreciate it if you'd just get down to telling him what you know…unless, of course, you'd like havin' him tearin' up your ER."

Dr. Conner let out a sigh. "I got the results of Dean's Tegretol level back. The generally accepted therapeutic value for Tegretol is somewhere between four and ten micrograms per milliliter. Dean's value was only two micrograms. In a nutshell, that means Dean's Tegretol level is too low to be causing Dean's extreme symptoms. His medicine has been withheld for more than twenty-four hours now and, if the medicine was the culprit, his symptoms should have gradually improved. Instead, they've gotten worse."

He looked from Sam to Gordy and back again before going on. "I had the Radiologist review Dean's scans again. When he still found nothing out of the ordinary, I went to the Radiology Department and reviewed them myself, certain that he had to have missed something. I picked over those scans with a fine-toothed comb and I couldn't come up with an explanation for Dean's symptoms. I should have been seen a tumor, an abnormal formation in the vessels of the brain, or possibly some brain tissue atrophy but, like the Radiologist, I found none."

Dr. Conner paused once again for a breath. Before starting again he stole a glance at Dr. Stevens, who nodded slightly in acknowledgement and encouragement. "So what I'm saying is," he indicated in the direction of Dr. Stevens, "the tests are completely inconclusive and I need you to bear with Larry and I while we ask you a few more questions to help us to sort this all out."

"I already told you everything…Dean collapsed, he wouldn't respond, he was screaming out in intense pain and we brought him here." Sam's exasperation at the doctor was really showing through now.

"What we need to know, Sam," Dr. Conner explained, "is what kind of symptoms he might have been showing _before_ his collapse…symptoms that might have shown up days and even weeks before, but hadn't seemed significant until now."

Sam was tiring of this, but if it helped get Dean the treatment he needed, well then, he'd endure it.

"I'm really not sure if this means anything. But ever since we got here, Dean's seemed kind of half distracted…and then he'd had trouble sleeping."

"Anything else you can think of?" Larry inquired.

Just then Gordy broke in. "What about the fact that he's not been eatin' real good? That mean anything?"

"Oh, yeah, Sam recalled. "Dean's usually a pretty hearty eater and he's complained of not feeling hungry. Thanks, Gordy, I'd forgotten about that."

"Any sweating or fevers?"

"No fevers that I know of. But now that you mention it, there were several times that Dean was drenched in sweat with the air conditioning as high as it would go. I was frozen and Dean was sweating like he'd just run a marathon."

Larry, the British doctor, had a look of budding realization on his face and took the lead on the questioning. "What about his emotions? Anything going on there?"

Sam looked somewhat surprised that Larry seemed to know about Dean's wildly divergent emotions. "Well, yeah. One minute he'd be fine…"

Larry broke in then and finished Sam's sentence for him. "…and the next minute he'd be pissed off, or crying or paranoid."

"Right," Sam agreed. "They changed so fast, it was almost like someone had flicked a control switch on Dean's emotions, bouncing his mood all over the place."

Again, Sam saw Larry and Tom trading worried glances.

_Ok, now I'm just plain getting pissed off_.

"Look," Sam threatened, the venom in his voice plain for everyone to hear, "I can tell you guys know more than you're letting on here, and if you don't tell me what it is in the next five minutes I'm going to have absolutely no qualms about thrashing some fuckin' doctor skulls open so I can dig around inside and find out for myself."

Sam didn't usually behave like this. That was more Dean's style. The macho, Buford Pusser, "Walking Tall" thing was something Dean had perfected. Sam usually preferred to reason with people, but his emotions were stretched so thin that he'd just snapped.

Tom shot Larry one more 'we-aren't-wrong-about-this-are-we?' look, sucked in another deep breath and dove in.

"Sam," Tom began with a sympathetic tone, "Dean doesn't have Trigeminal Neuralgia."

* * *

**To be continued...**

**A/N: Yep...I'm going to be very, very evil and leave you all dangling here until tomorrow! Any theories on what Dean's new diagnosis will be???**


	14. Two AllBeef Patties, Special Sauce

**Disclaimer: **Chapter 1 will give you all of the details.

**A/N:** I know I choose a rating for this story that covers language, violence, etc. but I just wanted to warn that this chapter does have some rough language in it like the end of the last chapter. I apologize if I offend anyone with it, but the emotion involved with this chapter is much more effectively expressed when it's included.

**From the previous chapter:**

_Again, Sam saw Larry and Tom trading worried glances._

**_Ok, now I'm just plain getting pissed off._**

"_Look," Sam threatened, the venom in his voice plain for everyone to hear, "I can tell you guys know more than you're letting on here, and if you don't tell me what it is in the next five minutes I'm going to have absolutely no qualms about thrashing some fuckin' doctor skulls open so I can dig around inside and find out for myself."_

_Sam didn't usually behave like this. That was more Dean's style. The macho, Buford Pusser, "Walking Tall" thing was something Dean had perfected. Sam usually preferred to reason with people, but his emotions were stretched so thin that he'd just snapped._

_Tom shot Larry one more 'we-aren't-wrong-about-this-are-we?' look, sucked in another deep breath and dove in._

"_Sam," Tom began with a sympathetic tone, "Dean doesn't have Trigeminal Neuralgia."_

* * *

**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

****

****

**Chapter 14: Two All-Beef Patties, Special Sauce, Lettuce…**

"What do you mean he doesn't have TN? You said it yourself that he did."

"I know I did, Sam," Dr. Conner admitted. "At first it seemed that way…but I was wrong. Dean's Tegretol levels are too low for the medicine to be causing them…and yet his symptoms appear to be worsening. The additional, seemingly insignificant symptoms that you've told us about today, coupled with the negative scans and the symptoms your brother exhibits here in the clinic, are classic signs of CJD."

Sam was beginning to panic. "So what's CJD?"

Once again, Tom pressed on. "CJD is short for Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease. It's a relatively rare neurological condition characterized by progressive mental deterioration and gradual loss of muscle control. The incidence of it is so uncommon that I didn't even consider it when I saw Dean the first time. Only one person in every one million people per year worldwide have CJD"

Gordy's large frame was noticeably tense. "How did he get it?"

"I'll take it from here, Tom," Larry interceded. Both Sam and Gordy had thought it strange that the ER doctor would be taking over for the specialist, but they let their curiosity go in favor of hearing what else would be said.

"That's kind of the strange part in all of this," the British doctor admitted. "CJD normally strikes individuals over the age of fifty-five. Already, that makes CJD an unusual diagnosis for someone Dean's age. Anyway, there are generally three accepted types of CJD – sporadic, hereditary, and acquired. The sporadic variety appears for no reason, usually when a person is in their sixties or seventies. The hereditary variety tends to run in families, which is why we were asking about your parents. The final type is the one that's most common in young people. It's known as the acquired variant and is sometimes referred to as BSE, Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy, and it comes from eating tainted meat."

Larry had paused briefly to allow Sam and Gordy to absorb the technical information. "Dean's symptoms are classic for someone with BSE-induced CJD and I'd surmise that he contracted it because of his habit of eating hamburgers. I saw a few cases similar to Dean's when I was still back in England in the late '90's. What I can't figure out is where he came into contact with the tainted meat…especially since he's not traveled abroad."

Gordy was disbelieving of what he thought he understood the physicians to be saying. "Are you saying that you think Dean is suffering from 'Mad Cow Disease'?"

"All we can say," Tom added, "is that Dean presents clinically with a profound, progressive neurological condition that is much more significant than the TN we'd originally diagnosed him with, and our testing has ruled out things like Multiple Sclerosis, Muscular Dystrophy, Myasthenia Gravis and a host of other conditions. There just isn't any _other _diagnosis to be made. The only unusual thing about Dean's presentation is the extremely rapid onset and progression of symptoms. Normally, someone with BSE sees a progressive decline over six to fourteen months, not the two to three _weeks _we've seen with Dean."

Sam sat silently for more than a few moments with a shell-shocked expression on his face. Finally, he spoke. "Ok, so it's going to be a tough fight. That's alright. Dean's tough. He's fought and beaten worse."

_Oh, man,_ Larry thought_, this is the part about my job that sucks…absolutely, just plain sucks. What's the 'right' way to tell someone, someone who's pain at so recently losing their father was so completely open and raw, that there is no 'fight', that there was nothing more modern medicine could do; that they're going to lose the only person they have left in this world…no matter what they do?_

Gordy could see by the strained expressions on the faces of the two medical men that neither he nor Sam was going to deal well with what was coming next. Gordy rose from his seat, rounded the end of Dean's bed and stood behind Sam, both large hands resting on Sam's shoulders.

The physicians understood the reason for Gordy's change of position and paused. Once Gordy had positioned himself behind Sam in a show of solidarity and support, Tom responded to Sam's statements.

"Sam…"

_God, these two clowns have used my name so much today I'm getting sick of hearing it._

"Sam," Tom began again, making certain he had the boy's attention. "You've got to understand that there _is_ no beating this. Sam, Dean's CJD _will_ eventually kill him. We can only make whatever time he has left as comfortable as possible by providing supportive care."

Although he heard no sounds, Gordy knew Sam had broken down because the hands he'd placed on Sam's shoulders had felt the first hitching breaths.

Minutes passed before anyone spoke. "If you'd like," Larry offered, "Tom and I can make arrangements for Dean to be admitted to a Hospice, someplace where he can get round-the-clock nursing care. Or, if you'd prefer, you can take him home and care for him yourself. If you decide to take him home, you just need to know that things are only going to get worse from here on out."

_Prefer? Prefer? I'd 'prefer' someone wake me up and tell me this was all a bad dream. I'd 'prefer' Dean to jump up, proclaiming this to be nothing more than one of his sick jokes and screaming 'You ought to see the look on your face! Ha…I got you, you pussy!' I'd 'prefer' to slam my fucking fist through a wall!_

"We'll give you two some time," Larry suggested, "while you think about Hospice care versus home care."

* * *

Sam already knew what he would do, but he really didn't want to talk anymore right now, so he let the two medics slip silently from the room. Sam already knew that he wanted to...no, make that _would_ take Dean home.

_Home. And just where would that be, Sam? We've never known a stable home our whole, entire lives. How can you say you're going to take Dean 'home' when you don't even have a 'home' to go to?_

Gordy had moved around in front of Sam and crouched down on his hunches. Shattering the desolate silence, Gordy quietly spoke, "I know I really don't have a say in this, Sam. But the short time you've been with me and Brenda, well, I know we've both felt like you two were the boys we never had. I know Brenda'd be upset if you went and let Dean be admitted to some nursing home, or something, instead of having him home with us…with his 'family'…"

He was searching Sam's eyes for any hint of understanding when he saw tears welling up in Sam's eyes. As Gordy enveloped him in a fatherly hug, Sam buried his head in the crook where Gordy's neck and shoulder met and wept with open relief. Sam's voice was so muted by grief that his reply of, "Thank you," had been barely more than a whisper.

* * *

While they waited for Dr. Conner and Dr. Stevens to return, Gordy had pulled his chair from the left side of Dean's bed around to the right side in order to be close to Sam. The two men had sat in silence since Sam had composed himself and dried his tears. Sam stared off into space, seeing nothing in particular, his mind lost in a whirlwind of thoughts and memories.

Gordy was seated to Sam's right, his beefy left hand resting gently on Sam's right knee in a strictly platonic show of support.

Eventually, Sam had gathered himself together and noticed Gordy again eyeing the multitude of healed and healing wounds that slashed across his brother's broad chest. Although Sam and Dean were accustomed to seeing the unusually numerous and often impressive scars each other carried, he couldn't blame someone like Gordy, who didn't live with it everyday, for staring.

Gordy knew he shouldn't be gawking the way he was, like some rubber-necking driver trying to get a glimpse of something gory at the scene of an auto accident, but there was just something different today that made him continue to study Dean's scars.

Suddenly his eyes caught something. He hadn't seen it when he was seated on Dean's other side. The change in the angle of the room lighting had apparently been all it took to make the thing more noticeable. Even still, had Gordy not been a Mid-West cattle farmer he probably wouldn't have noted the difference between the small, circular-shaped scar on Dean's left pectoral muscle and the rest of his numerous but more linear wounds. In fact, he thought he might be seeing things.

"Sam…" Gordy hesitated, unsure of just how to begin.

"Yeah?"

"Umm…do you notice anything different about Dean today?"

Although what had been happening to Dean wasn't the least bit humorous, Gordy's seemingly understated question struck Sam's overwhelmed brain as perversely funny. If Dean hadn't been out of it, Sam knew Dean would be laughing at that one. Dean just seemed to have a taste for the perverted. It was kind of what made him Dean.

Sam snorted out a half-stifled laugh, gesturing towards the hospital bed and the broken form of his once vital older brother lying there. "You mean besides the obvious?"

Gordy scrunched his face up in embarrassment. _Ok. This isn't exactly going well, now is it? Way to go, Gordo. Let me introduce myself. I'm Gordon Hoover, author of 'How to Offend Your Dying Friend's Brother in One Easy Lesson.'_

"I'm sorry, Gordy. Go ahead. You were saying?"

"I know this is going to sound strange, but…"

"But what, Gordy? Just spit it out already."

Gordy reached a hesitant hand out towards the unusual looking scar on Dean's left chest. "Take a look at this scar right here. First of all, it's different from all of the rest…more like a burn. Hell, this'll sound weird…"

"Can't be any weirder than the diagnosis that Stevens and Conner sprung on us."

Gordy had to admit that Sam had him on that one, so he surged blindly ahead. "That scar there. It almost looks like Dean's been branded…you know, with a hot iron…like my cows."

Sam hadn't noticed the area until Gordy brought his attention to it. He'd been too busy worrying over Dean when they first got here and then too deeply submerged in his anguish later to do much more than breathe…and even that had been hard for a while.

"And the other thing," the farmer noted, "…it's not some abstract, random shape like the others, either. It's a circular shape."

Sam had leaned over his brother's sleeping form and tried to get a better look at the mark that Gordy had indicated. The area that appeared to be seared into Dean's skin was small, almost inconspicuously so, but Sam could see that it consisted of two circles, one slightly smaller than the other and nested inside of the larger one. In the arc formed by the space between the two differently sized circles was what appeared to be angular symbols.

Try as he might, Sam couldn't make sense of what seemed to be an inscription of tiny hieroglyphics. "Gordy, do me a favor, would you? Grab one of those nurses and see if we can borrow a pocket mirror."

"A mirror?"

"Yeah," Sam answered in explanation. He was still bent over his brother staring intently at the pockmark on his left chest.

Sam had seemed so certain of his request that Gordy hadn't questioned him further but went straight away to complete his assigned task. Returning with his tiny prize, Gordy handed it to the young man, noting Sam's face was now a study in intensity, his green eyes burning with a life and fire Gordy hadn't seen in them in days.

Sam held the mirror up near the symbol that had been singed into the skin of Dean's chest and peered into it. The young hunter had guessed right. What had looked like hieroglyphic symbols within the circles were , in reality, minute, mirror-image letters spelling out the Latin words, "Exsequor amator, contrecto pestis mei."

"Oh, my God…"

* * *

**To be continued...**

**A/N:** BSE (better known as "Mad Cow Disease") has been implicated in the development of Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease in humans, particularly in young people. The most widely known cases occured in the UK in the 1990's. It truly is a horrible and deadly ailment and my use of that diagnosis in this story was in no way intended to make light of the disease, nor the victims and families that have suffered through its devastating effects. My sincere apologies if I've offended anyone.


	15. Call in the Cavalry

**Disclaimer: **See chapter 1

**From the previous chapter:**

_Sam had leaned over his brother's sleeping form and tried to get a better look at the mark that Gordy had indicated. The area that appeared to be seared into Dean's skin was small, almost inconspicuously so, but Sam could see that it consisted of two circles, one slightly smaller than the other and nested inside of the larger one. In the arc formed by the space between the two differently sized circles was what appeared to be angular symbols._

_Try as he might, Sam couldn't make sense of what seemed to be an inscription of tiny hieroglyphics. "Gordy, do me a favor, would you? Grab one of those nurses and see if we can borrow a pocket mirror."_

"_A mirror?"_

"_Yeah," Sam answered in explanation. He was still bent over his brother staring intently at the pockmark on his left chest._

_Sam had seemed so certain of his request that Gordy hadn't questioned him further but went straight away to complete his assigned task. Returning with his tiny prize, Gordy handed it to the young man, noting Sam's face was now a study in intensity, his green eyes burning with a life and fire Gordy hadn't seen in them in days._

_Sam held the mirror up near the symbol that had been singed into the skin of Dean's chest and peered into it. The young hunter had guessed right. What had looked like hieroglyphic symbols within the circles were , in reality, minute, mirror-image letters spelling out the Latin words, "Exsequor amator, contrecto pestis mei."_

"_Oh, my God…"_

_

* * *

_

**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

**Chapter 15: Call in the Cavalry**

Sam's gaze had still not lifted from the branded area on Dean's chest when he quickly reached into his pocket and withdrew his cell phone. Flipping the cover open, he proceeded to dial. "This is bigger than me, Gordy. I can't do this alone. I need to get help."

"I'm here for you, Sam. You know that. And Brenda is, too."

Sam let Gordy's assurance drop without responding as the phone rang in his ear. Instead, Sam impatiently tapped his foot and wiped the sweat from his other palm on the leg of his jeans. "Come on…come on."

The phone rang several times before the call was picked up.

"Yep. Bobby's Auto. Bobby, here…what can I do for you?"

"Bobby!" Sam virtually screamed into the phone. His words tumbled out in a jumbled torrent of rushed words. "Bobby, I need help…I can't do this by myself…I'm not sure what to do…we're in Iowa and it's bad, Bobby, it's bad…it's Dean…I think he's been…I don't know…I can't let him die, Bobby…Oh, God…if that happens…I just…I don't think I could…"

Bobby knew that Sam and Dean had been through a hell of a lot of things in their short lives. Even as young children they'd faced things that would have made a grown man die from fright. And it was precisely because of the things they'd seen during their childhood and they way in which they were raised that Bobby knew they didn't scare easily. So when he'd heard the terror in Sam's voice, Bobby's blood ran cold. If Sam was this upset…this freaked…things had gotten downright ugly.

"Slow down, Sam! I can't understand what you're trying to tell me. I'll help you but you've got to slow down. I can't help you if you're going to lose it. We can't help Dean until you calm down and talk to me."

The older man could hear Sam take a few shuddering breaths and begin again more slowly.

"It's Dean. He's really sick and I don't know what to do. The doctors say they can't help him and…well…" Sam slowed the tempo of his next sentence even more and applied more emphasis to the words, "…**I know you don't want to leave Rosemary alone with the baby**…but I need you to come out here and help me."

"Shit! You're not alone right now, are you, Sam? I mean, you can't talk freely, right?"

"Right."

Some time ago Bobby, Sam and Dean had come up with the reference to the 1968 film "Rosemary's Baby", in which a young woman is impregnated by a demon, as a way to communicate a need for supernatural assistance when the setting was too public for them to speak openly.

Bobby's mind was racing. "Have you been able to confirm what you're dealing with?"

"Not yet, but Dean's really sick. The medicines the doctor gave him aren't helping and they're mystified by the course of his illness. Also, we found a strange branded area on Dean's chest." Sam's voice took on an almost ominous tone. "I think we should call Father Karras."

Father Karras had been the priest who performed the cleansing ritual that had forced evil from the young girl's body in Bobby's favorite film, "The Exorcist." It was Sam's coded way of telling Bobby that he suspected a demon was involved.

"Gotcha, Sam. I'm getting my supplies together as we speak and I'm heading out the door. Be there as soon as I can. Do what you can without me, but Sam…be careful…if this _is_ a possession, Dean's not going to care that you're his brother…he _could_ hurt you."

* * *

The drive home had seemed to take forever. Sam's mind was reeling the whole way as he tried hard to think straight. Now was not the time to let panic overtake him. Their father had taught Dean and Sam years ago that letting panic set in only did one thing…cause good hunters to make bad judgments... get sloppy…get killed. 

Sam clung tightly to his older brother's trembling form. "It's ok, Dean. You're gonna be ok. I called Bobby. He'll know what to do. We're gonna make this better, I promise."

* * *

Brenda had broken down when Gordy and Sam told her what the doctors had said about Dean's condition. She and Gordy had never had kids of their own and over the past few weeks she'd come to feel that void had been filled by the two young hunters. No, she may not have borne them herself, but that didn't mean she couldn't love them like a mother. Having them here had been as close as she would ever get to motherhood. And now some doctor was telling her that she was going to lose Dean to some horrible, awful disease and there was nothing anyone, not even the doctors, could do about it. 

They had assisted Dean up the stairs and busied themselves trying to get him as comfortable as they could. The effort of climbing the stairs had once again brought rivulets of sweat pouring from Dean's pale skin. They had stripped Dean of his damp shirt and jeans and placed him on his back in bed in just his boxers. Brenda had started to pull the sheet up over his chest when Dean croaked out just one word. "Hot."

"Alright, pumpkin. I'll just leave it folded down at your hips. If you get cold, you let us know." Brenda was holding Dean's right hand, lightly stroking back and forth on the back of it with her thumb. Her expression reflected the torment she knew the young man was enduring; a torment that ripped at her heart.

Gordy had moved to stand behind her and had his strong arm draped over her shoulder in support. Sam was seated on the bed on Dean's left side, staring intently at his brother. Gordy and Brenda heard Sam mutter something to Dean. "Christo…"

Sam waited; watched. "Christo," he intoned, this time louder and more forcefully. He still saw no flinching response from Dean and he let out a relieved, but confused, sigh. He had been fairly certain that Dean was possessed by some demon, and yet the demon had not flinched at the Latin phrase.

He was still searching his brain for an explanation for this when he looked up and noticed that Brenda and Gordy were staring at him with strange expressions. It was Gordy that spoke next.

"Look, I know you're upset Sam and that stress can make a person do some pretty odd things. But something's going on here and I get the feeling you know more about all this than you're letting on. You've been acting strangely since we found that…that _thing_ at the hospital." Gordy was pointing at the brand again. "You've obviously seen it, or something like it, before or you wouldn't have known to ask for the mirror. Up 'til now you've refused to talk to me about it and now you're sitting here mumbling some mumbo-jumbo. I know what's happening to Dean is hard for you, hell, it's hard for us, but you need to be straight with us."

Sam knew he owed the kindly couple an explanation but it had always been drilled into him not to talk about this kind of stuff…not to involve "civilians". _Fuck it. Dean's gonna die if I don't figure out what's going on and until Bobby gets here, I could use their help._

Sam sighed deeply, unsure exactly how to tell this innocent country couple that the things that go bump in the night are real; that all those horror films they've seen weren't necessarily all that far off the mark; that demons walk the earth among us.

"Guys…" Sam paused trying to collect his thoughts before plunging in. "I can't tell you how I know this. You're going to have to trust me…but that symbol on Dean's chest…it spells out a mirror-image text, 'Exsequor amator, contrecto pestis mei.' It means, 'to avenge my lover; deeply feel my curse'. It's Latin…and probably a pretty good clue to what's going on with Dean…and it isn't something…natural."

Neither the farmer nor his wife spoke. They seemed to be quietly digesting what Sam had said, trying to extract as much meaning from Sam's somewhat cryptic statements as possible.

Gordy spoke, his voice soft and hesitant. "So…you're saying this is something…something, um…_super_natural?"

Sam nodded silently. He knew what he was asking this couple to do; that he was asking them to open up their minds to things that were almost beyond comprehension. Some days even Sam found it hard to comprehend what was out there in the shadows. And now he was asking for their unquestioning trust without so much as an adequate explanation of why he knew what he knew. _Hell, is there even such a thing as an adequate explanation for the things Dean and I deal with every day?_

"And you're sure about this?"

"Yeah, Gordy…I am." Sam looked away from the man and his wife, bowing his head and fidgeting with his hands.

"Ok, then, what's our next step?"

Sam's head snapped up in shock. "You believe me? You don't want us to leave?"

"Leave? Heaven's no, Sam. We can't even claim to know why you know all this. But we believe in you and Dean…and if you say there's something else going on here…something…otherworldly…well, that's good enough for the two of us." Gordy looked at Brenda as she gently touched her husbands forearm and nodded her consent.

"That's right," Brenda agreed, "…and we'll do whatever we can to help. You just say the word."

Sam was overcome with gratitude at the kindness this couple continued to lavish upon the two brothers who'd never known any life but the nomadic existence of hunters. They'd taken them under their wing and become the loving, apple-pie parents they'd never had. Well, the apple-pie parents Sam had never known, anyway. Dean had been lucky enough to have that kind of parents in John and Mary for his first four years. Sam, well, he'd had that privilege ripped from him on the night of his six month birthday…the night his mother died in his nursery and his father descended into the black depths of despair and revenge.

Then again, Sam thought, maybe he actually _had_ been the lucky one. He'd never known anything different than the military-style upbringing of their father and the constant uprooting brought about by their need to follow evil wherever it took them. Dean, on the other hand, had known the peaceful existence of a loving family and the memories of what he lost that fateful night had been tearing at his soul ever since. _Yeah,I suppose I was the__ lucky one. Unlike Dean, I can't really miss what I've never known._

The young man shook himself from his thoughts and, pulling himself together, began rattling off a list of items that they would need. They had to proceed carefully and methodically. Although Sam had his suspicions, they still didn't know for certain what they were dealing with. If they made a mistake now, it could cost them their lives…or Dean's.

* * *

**To be continued...**


	16. Heroes and Holy Water

**Disclaimer: **I've said it before, I'll say it again…check Chapter 1

**A/N: **Here's the part where I get to tell you that my "demon detecting technique" is pure, unadulterated horse pucky. In other words, I don't have the foggiest idea what I'm talking about…but it sounded good!

**From the previous chapter:**

_Gordy spoke, his voice soft and hesitant. "So…you're saying this is something…something, um…supernatural?"_

_Sam nodded silently. He knew what he was asking this couple to do; that he was asking them to open up their minds to things that were almost beyond comprehension. Some days even Sam found it hard to comprehend what was out there in the shadows. And now he was asking for their unquestioning trust without so much as an adequate explanation of why he knew what he knew. **Hell, is there even such a thing as an adequate explanation for the things Dean and I deal with every day?**_

"_And you're sure about this?"_

"_Yeah, Gordy…I am." Sam looked away from the man and his wife, bowing his head and fidgeting with his hands._

"_Ok, then, what's our next step?"_

_Sam's head snapped up in shock. "You believe me? You don't want us to leave?"_

"_Leave? Heaven's no, Sam. We can't even claim to know why you know all this. But we believe in you and Dean…and if you say there's something else going on here…something…otherworldly…well, that's good enough for the two of us." Gordy looked at Brenda as she gently touched her husbands forearm and nodded her consent._

"_That's right," Brenda agreed, "…and we'll do whatever we can to help. You just say the word."_

_Sam was overcome with gratitude at the kindness this couple continued to lavish upon the two brothers who'd never known any life but the nomadic existence of hunters. They'd taken them under their wing and become the loving, apple-pie parents they'd never had. Well, the apple-pie parents Sam had never known, anyway. Dean had been lucky enough to have that kind of parents in John and Mary for his first four years. Sam, well, he'd had that privilege ripped from him on the night of his six month birthday…the night his mother died in his nursery and his father descended into the black depths of despair and revenge._

_Then again, Sam thought, maybe he actually had been the lucky one. He'd never known anything different than the military-style upbringing of their father and the constant uprooting brought about by their need to follow evil wherever it took them. Dean, on the other hand, had known the peaceful existence of a loving family and the memories of what he lost that fateful night had been tearing at his soul ever since. **Yeah, I suppose I was the lucky one. Unlike Dean, I can't really miss what I've never known.**_

_The young man shook himself from his thoughts and, pulling himself together, began rattling off a list of items that they would need. They had to proceed carefully and methodically. Although Sam had his suspicions, they still didn't know for certain what they were dealing with. If they made a mistake now, it could cost them their lives…or Dean's._

_

* * *

_

**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

****

****

**Chapter 16: Heroes and Holy Water**

****

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Sam gazed questioningly at the older couple. "I understand if you've changed your minds."

Gordy nodded with resolve. "Dean needs us. Let's do it."

Sam drew in a deep breath. "You need to know this could get ugly."

Sam had started rummaging through his bag of supplies. He pulled a crucifix from the bag and set it on the stand next to the bed. John's journal had come out next, followed closely behind by a large vial of holy water.

Normally, Sam would have just splashed the holy water over Dean's body from a safe distance. But with Dean having those horrible muscle spasms Sam knew that pouring the sanctified liquid on his brother's skin would cause him to twitch violently whether a demon was present, or not.

Instead, Sam would have to apply it gently and that meant getting much, much closer; dangerously close if it turned out that Dean was, in fact, possessed. Sam poured the holy water onto a soft cloth Brenda had given him. He sat softly on the edge of the bed and, reaching down slowly, he gingerly swiped the saturated cloth onto the middle of Dean's chest.

Sam sat holding his breath watching Dean for any signs. When none came, he let out the imprisoned breath in a sudden gush. From the time he was a young child, Dean had always been Sam's rock; the one person that could keep him safe and allay his fears; his knight in shining armor; his hero that never failed to save the day. The thought of someone as pure of heart as Dean being possessed by the unclean evil of a demon dug a huge pit into his stomach.

Brenda looked expectantly at Sam. "This is good? I mean, nothing happened…right?"

"Yeah…except now I'm stumped. I was certain we were dealing with a demon but I've tested him twice, once with the 'Christo' and now with holy water and nothing."

Gordy gave Sam a look that could only be described as pitying and sympathetic. He really hated to shatter the young man, to make him think he didn't trust him the way in which he had said he did, especially at a time when he knew Sam was on the edge emotionally, but he was starting to think the strain on Sam had caused him to start to lose his hold on reality.

"Sam," Gordy began in a soft, fatherly tone, "I think you need to start accepting that the doctors were right. That Dean's sick…and that's all it is...that there's nothing else going on."

Sam looked at Gordy with such a pained expression that Gordy felt a horrible stab of guilt piercing into his gut. Sam still had the cloth with the holy water on it in his hand and it dangled over Dean's chest. Sam's ears burned with the words that Gordy had spoken; words that mimicked the growing fear that had niggled at his brain. _What if I'm wrong? What if the doctors were right…that this is nothing more than some awful virus? What if I can't fix this because the trouble isn't something supernatural?_

Sam's breath caught in his throat and he found himself unable to reply. He slowly withdrew the hand holding the cloth and sat on the edge of Dean's bed like some shell-shocked soldier, unable to move, unable to talk, unable to think beyond the prospect of losing the one person in Sam's life that could keep him centered…keep him sane in their insane world.

As Sam had drawn his arm back, several drops of holy water had fallen from the dangling corner of the cloth and splattered silently on Dean's scarred chest. Sam was so consumed by his panicked thoughts that he hadn't noticed the liquid as it washed over the branded area.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!"

The soft exclamation from Brenda had brought Sam around and torn Gordy's gaze from the agony his words had caused the boy. Each turned to look in the direction of Brenda's shocked stare.

Sam could hardly believe his eyes when he noted that the holy water was bubbling and sputtering on the seared surface of the brand. Dean had not moved, but the roiling of the blessed fluid was unmistakable. He wasn't sure just what to make of it, but Sam was now absolutely certain that something supernatural was happening to Dean. And if it _was_ supernatural, then they still had a fighting chance to turn things around.

* * *

Sam tossed the cloth down at the sound of a vehicle crunching to a stop on the stones of the driveway outside the farmhouse. He dashed down the steps, taking them two at a time, and flashed out the door.

Bobby was already out of the vehicle and digging around inside when Sam reached him. Depositing a bag on the ground, Bobby straightened, and giving Sam an appraising look, dragged him into a strong hug, slapping him fervently on the back.

"How you holdin' up, Sam?" He didn't bother to wait for an answer. The pale drawn look, dark circles and heavy growth of stubble on the man standing in front of him had been answer enough. "You know anything more?"

As they made their way back to the house, Sam told the slightly graying man about the symptoms that had led up to Dean's diagnosis and dramatic decline. They had gotten all the way to Dean's room before Sam was done with his tale. He hadn't yet gotten a chance to tell Bobby about what had happened with the holy water, when they stepped through the bedroom door and Brenda and Gordy rose from their seats.

"Bobby, this is Brenda and Gordy Hoover. We've been staying with them since Dean got sick. They've been helping me care for him."

"Nice to meet you folks," Bobby said as he offered his hand. "I really appreciate you lookin' after these boys. They're like sons to me."

Brenda smiled and, turning to look over her shoulder at Dean, weakly said, "I know what you mean."

Bobby leaned over Dean, his eyes peering inquisitively at the brand on Dean's left chest. "Um…Sam…it's been a long trip. I shouldn't waste any more time before I let Rosemary know I'm here." Bobby knew time was of the essence and he was letting Sam know that, too.

"It's ok, Bobby," Sammy admitted. "I told them."

Bobby's one eyebrow shot up in surprise. Each of them could see his body posture tensing.

Gordy could feel the awkwardness mounting in the room and tried to ease it. "Sam told us he thought Dean was being affected by something supernatural. I won't say we understand, and I'm not sure I want to know anything more than I need to help Dean, but these boys mean a lot to us. And if that means trusting y'all without asking questions, then that's just what me and Brenda'll do."

Each of them could see Bobby relaxing a bit. "Well, let's get started then. We don't have time to waste. Is there anything more I need to know?"

"Just one more thing," Sam explained. Dean had no response when I said 'Christo' so we tried holy water next. At first it looked like it was a no-go, too…when I applied it to Dean's skin. It wasn't until it touched the branded area that we finally got something. The holy water had absolutely no effect until it hit the brand. That's when it started bubbling like butter in a hot pan."

Bobby paled slightly and returned his attention to Dean's unmoving form. He reached down and pulled the sheet back from Dean's legs and carelessly bunched it at the foot of the bed. He began quickly searching Dean's body, trying not to touch him more than necessary so as not to stir up the tremors again.

Sam had moved to the other side of the bed so that he could see what Bobby was doing. "What are you looking for?"

"I'll know it when I see it, Sam." Bobby never raised his eyes, just kept searching.

He grabbed Dean's left arm and turned it, palm up, and scanned the pale, sweat-glistened surface of his skin. Next, he did the same to Dean's right arm.

"Shit!"

Sam jumped. He couldn't see what Bobby had noted, but the reaction of his older friend told him it wasn't going to be something he'd like.

Bobby extended his arm, pointing at the flask of holy water still situated on the bedside stand. "Hand me that flask, would you?"

Sam retrieved the requested item and placed it in Bobby's outstretched hand. He still wasn't certain what Bobby had seen. "Did you find something, Bobby?"

"Here. Do you see that?"

Sam leaned in closer and peered at the area on the underside of Dean's right forearm that had been indicated by the older man. "I don't see anything."

Bobby motioned for Sam to lean closer. "See that? When the light hits it at the right angle there's a shimmer…almost like the shimmer you see when sun glints across an oil and water mixture."

Bobby removed the cap from the flask of holy water and poured a small amount over the glinting discoloration. As the sanctified liquid cascaded over the area, the skin began to redden, so much so that it almost appeared to glow like the red-hot embers of a fire. The more it glowed the more inflamed the skin became until it formed a series of angry red welts that finally converged in to a cohesive form.

Sam straightened slowly to his full height, his eyes leaving the fiery red mark now conspicuously present on Dean's inner forearm in order to look Bobby full in the face. A pained expression crept across Sam's features.

"Sekhmet?" he questioned breathlessly.

* * *

**To be continued…**


	17. Born in Arizona, Moved to Babylonia

**Disclaimer:** Review Chapter 1.

**About the chapter title:** For those of you too young to remember (alright, now, no comments about how _old _I am), when Steve Martin was on the early Saturday Night Live episodes, he would dress in full Eqyptian regalia and sing a comedy song called, "King Tut". It was a very funny song and asserted that King Tut was "born in Arizona, moved to Babylonia".

**From the previous chapter:**

_He grabbed Dean's left arm and turned it, palm up, and scanned the pale, sweat-glistened surface of his skin. Next, he did the same to Dean's right arm._

"_Shit!"_

_Sam jumped. He couldn't see what Bobby had noted, but the reaction of his older friend told him it wasn't going to be something he'd like._

_Bobby extended his arm, pointing at the flask of holy water still situated on the bedside stand. "Hand me that flask, would you?"_

_Sam retrieved the requested item and placed it in Bobby's outstretched hand. He still wasn't certain what Bobby had seen. "Did you find something, Bobby?"_

"_Here. Do you see that?"_

_Sam leaned in closer and peered at the area on the underside of Dean's right forearm that had been indicated by the older man. "I don't see anything."_

_Bobby motioned for Sam to lean closer. "See that? When the light hits it at the right angle there's a shimmer…almost like the shimmer you see when sun glints across an oil and water mixture."_

_Bobby removed the cap from the flask of holy water and poured a small amount over the glinting discoloration. As the sanctified liquid cascaded over the area, the skin began to redden, so much so that it almost appeared to glow like the red-hot embers of a fire. The more it glowed the more inflamed the skin became until it formed a series of angry red welts that finally converged in to a cohesive form._

_Sam straightened slowly to his full height, his eyes leaving the fiery red mark now conspicuously present on Dean's inner forearm in order to look Bobby full in the face. A pained expression crept across Sam's features._

"_Sekhmet?" he questioned breathlessly._

_

* * *

_

**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

**Chapter 17: Born in Arizona, Moved to Babylonia**

"Sekhmet," Brenda repeated. "What's that?"

Sam tore his gaze from Bobby to look at Brenda. "It's not a what…it's a who. Sekhmet is an Egyptian sun goddess. See here," Sam said, indicating various areas of the welts on Dean's right arm, "…that's the body of a woman and here's her head…the head of a lioness…and this is the sun disk above her head."

"That's right," Bobby agreed. "But, according to ancient Egyptian beliefs, Sekhmet was also known as the Destructor. Specifically, her destructive side involved disease and plague. Some ancient papyrus rolls found by archaeologists refer to her as the 'Lady of Pestilence.'"

"Ok," Sam forged on. "I get the hieroglyph that denotes Sekhmet, but what the heck is that underneath it?" Sam was pointing at a series of hieroglyphic shapes formed by the welts and situated immediately beneath Sekhmet's mark.

"That's the hieroglyph for an urn," Bobby explained. "The drinking of beer was an extremely important and common practice for the ancient Egyptians, especially during certain rituals of worship. The worship of Sekhmet was very closely linked with the consumption of beer."

Before Bobby could continue, Sam interjected wryly. "Leave it to Dean to have the mark of a beer goddess on him. Couldn't he have just settled for a tattoo of a St. Pauly's girl?"

Bobby chuckled despite the gravity of what he was coming to conclude. "During the fourth dynasty," Bobby continued, "a group of priests devoted to Sekhmet became increasingly unhappy with the social policies of Pharaoh Khufu. These priests specialized in medicine, but they were equally practiced in magic, and they conspired to remove Khufu from power and place their high priest, Kahotep, on the throne. During the Festival of Ra, the Sun God, it was the priests' duty to provide the beer for the Pharaoh in virtually never-ending quantities. They used their knowledge of the effects of various herbs and their mastery of magic to invoke Sekhmet to poison Khufu's beer with disease."

"Why would they do that? Why not just kill him?" Gordy appeared perplexed and more than just a bit unnerved.

"If they were to succeed in placing Kahotep on the throne, it was imperative that they avoid suspicion of any wrong doing. Khufu was said to have suffered from severe shaking episodes, confusion and incapacitation until he was nothing more than an empty shell. Khufu appeared to be just one more hapless victim of random, natural disease and the priests literally got away with murder. Most archaeologists regard the story as nothing more than a legend…a way for the ancient people to explain away a seizure disorder or some other natural disease."

"But this is sounding a little too similar for comfort," Sam confessed. "Are you saying that you think Dean is suffering the same fate as Khufu?"

"I think we need to consider the very real possibility that Dean has run into a very pissed off Sekhmet somewhere and she's up to her old tricks doing what she does best…disease and destruction." Bobby started to rise and head for the bedroom door. "If we're going to help Dean, we need to hurry. I have some things in the car that I think will help."

Bobby had returned from his car carrying a large, dusty, leather-bound volume and what appeared to be an old-fashioned style doctor's medical bag. Inside each item was what Bobby hoped would be the keys to Dean's salvation.

Although he knew he would be unable to completely cure Dean of his illness without neutralizing the spirit of Sekhmet, the supplies that he had retrieved would buy them some valuable time. And, if they were extremely fortunate, they would hopefully pull Dean far enough back from the brink to actually give the group some much needed assistance.

"Alright, everyone," Bobby started authoritatively. "I'm going to need everyone's help. Brenda…I need you to find your largest stew pot and start boiling as much water as it will hold. Gordy…I need you to go out to your garden and bring back trimmings from the rosemary and sage plants. Also, pull a couple of garlic bulbs while you're there. We're going to need a lot of herbs and the fresher they are, the better. Sam…I need you here with me. Now's the time to brush up on your Latin, kiddo, 'cause we're gonna sanctify that pot of water into holy water as an added precaution. Once we're done with that, you'll be helping me add Gordy's herbs, plus some from my case."

"What's that for," Brenda inquired as she pointed at the dusty volume Bobby had lugged from his car and set out on the kitchen table. The leather-bound book had various symbols inscribed into the cover that looked very much like the hieroglyphics on Dean's arm.

"That's a copy of the medical inscriptions from the temple at Kom Ombos. It's going to tell me," Bobby clarified, "which herbs I need to be using in the tea we'll be steeping in your pot of water. Then we're going to help Dean to drink it until his symptoms clear. At that point, I'm hoping Dean can give us some insights into just where and when he encountered Sekhmet and where we can find her. We've got to find her and destroy her quickly because this tea is a bit of a double-edged sword. Drinking it won't _cure_ him. It'll only reverse the symptoms for a time…and once the symptoms return, they're usually worse than they were beforehand."

* * *

**To be continued…**

**A/N: **Sekhmet is the name of a real Egyptian goddess. Her priests did specialize in the practices of medicine and magic and the consumption of beer was considered a vital part of Ancient Egyptian life and worship. It was so much a part of their culture that it was considered a normal and commonplace practice for people of all ages, including children, to drink beer. Khufu is real, as well, and he truly was a 4th dynasty Pharaoh. The rest of my Khufu connection (i.e. the tainting of the beer and the resulting illness) was manufactured by li'l, ole me in order to take the story in the direction I wanted it to go. I certain there is an Egyptologist somewhere, who's cringing!


	18. Reversal of Fortune

**Disclaimer: **Chapter 1 says it all.

**A/N:** I just want to take a brief moment to thank everyone that is reading this story and offering up opinions, theories, reviews, etc. I apologize for not posting chapters for the past few days as I normally would have. The previous chapter and this one have been very hard for me. For some reason I just couldn't seem to smooth them out and put a good flow to them and spent extra time re-working them. Hopefully, the live up to your expectations.

**From the previous chapter:**

"_Alright, everyone," Bobby started authoritatively. "I'm going to need everyone's help. Brenda…I need you to find your largest stew pot and start boiling as much water as it will hold. Gordy…I need you to go out to your garden and bring back trimmings from the rosemary and sage plants. Also, pull a couple of garlic bulbs while you're there. We're going to need a lot of herbs and the fresher they are, the better. Sam…I need you here with me. Now's the time to brush up on your Latin, kiddo, 'cause we're gonna sanctify that pot of water into holy water as an added precaution. Once we're done with that, you'll be helping me add Gordy's herbs, plus some from my case."_

"_What's that for," Brenda inquired as she pointed at the dusty volume Bobby had lugged from his car and set out on the kitchen table. The leather-bound book had various symbols inscribed into the cover that looked very much like the hieroglyphics on Dean's arm._

"_That's a copy of the medical inscriptions from the temple at Kom Ombos. It's going to tell me," Bobby clarified, "which herbs I need to be using in the tea we'll be steeping in your pot of water. Then we're going to help Dean to drink it until his symptoms clear. At that point, I'm hoping Dean can give us some insights into just where and when he encountered Sekhmet and where we can find her. We've got to find her and destroy her quickly because this tea is a bit of a double-edged sword. Drinking it won't cure him. It'll only reverse the symptoms for a time…and once the symptoms return, they're usually worse than they were beforehand."_

* * *

**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

****

**Chapter 18: Reversal of Fortune**

By the time all of the herbs had been gathered, the water blessed and boiled and the tea steeped, a little more than an hour had passed. Sam had slipped away several times to reassure himself that Dean didn't need anything.

Dean had slept at intervals, but when he was awake he had shown no sign of realization that anyone was around. He also had not spoken a word since much earlier that day when they were still at the hospital. In fact, Dean hadn't even acknowledged the arrival of Bobby, a sign that Sam took to be quite ominous.

Bobby and Dean had always been very close. Since Dean didn't make even the slightest sign that he knew Bobby was here, Sam knew Dean was either physically incapable of acknowledging him…or he was mentally unaware. Either way, it meant that Dean was slipping away; that they were running out of time. That thought scared the hell out of Sam.

Once the tea was done, Bobby poured a small amount off into a mug. After allowing it to cool a bit, Sam began administering the tea to Dean with a spoon. Every few minutes he would dribble more of the herbal drink into Dean's mouth and wait for him to swallow it.

It wasn't until late into the evening that Dean had finally improved enough to be able to drink from the mug with help. The first few tries at it had seen some of the precious fluid sloshed from the cup when Dean had been wracked by muscle spasms. Eventually, though, Sam seemed to be able to gauge when a tremor was likely to hit and could compensate for it.

Brenda had brought Sam a sandwich and lemonade in the evening, but he really hadn't been hungry and only managed three or four bites before ignoring it altogether. By midnight, the muscles of Sam's shoulders and back ached mercilessly from leaning over every fifteen or twenty minutes to assist Dean with his drink.

Sam had been softly talking to Dean intermittently throughout the long hours. When his voice grew tired, the only sound in the room was Dean's soft, steady breathing and the occasional 'clink' of an ice cube as it melted slightly and repositioned itself within the glass of lemonade. It was during one of these lulls that Brenda appeared in the doorway. Sam's figure was slumped in the chair next to Dean's bed and gave no indication that he knew that Brenda was there. Sam's face was creased with exhaustion and the weight of his own private thoughts.

Brenda crossed the short distance to Sam, pulled an empty chair up next to him and sat. She curved her arm around Sam and massaged small, gentle circles into his back with the palm of her hand. "Sam, honey, you really need to get some rest. Making yourself sick isn't going to help Dean. I can sit with him and give him his tea while you get some sleep."

Sam turned to look at Brenda. His eyes seemed so vacant and the look of absolute devastation on his face tore at Brenda's heart. "Dean's gonna die, isn't he?" Sam blurted out. "He's gonna die and I'm gonna be alone. I can't …I don't know what I'll do without him."

"You need to give it some more time, sweetheart. You trust that Bobby knows what to do, right? You wouldn't have called him if you didn't believe that. True?"

"Uh huh."

"Well, there you have it then," Brenda concluded. "I refuse to give up on Dean…or you and Bobby. Dean knows how much you love him, Sam, and even though he might not be able to tell you this, I'm certain he's fighting harder than he ever has in order to come back to us."

Brenda enveloped Sam in a motherly and reassuring hug. "Now…I don't want to hear any arguments, Samuel. You're going to crawl into that spare bed over there and get some sleep. You leave Dean up to me."

Sam was too drained to protest and rose to comply. Brenda ushered him insistently to the empty bed next to Dean's. Not even bothering to peel off his sweat pants and t-shirt, Sam flopped down on the bed and allowed Brenda to cover him over with a light quilt.

* * *

Sam had no idea just how long he'd been asleep when he awoke with a start. The sky outside the large windows was beginning to lighten with the first purplish-pink rays of sunrise, casting odd shadows about the room that warped familiar objects into unfamiliar shapes.

Still in the process of pushing away the disorientation of rudely interrupted sleep, Sam was having a hard time trying to distinguish the odd sounds he was hearing. There was an incessant rattling, almost a banging, that was accompanied by a strange keening.

"Dean? Dean!" Sam sat suddenly upright, the covers tossed carelessly away. Sam's feet were still partially entrapped by the quilt as he bolted from the bed, half stumbling, half crawling to Dean's bedside where Brenda was struggling to quiet and reassure him.

Bobby had warned that as the tea began taking effect, the reversal of Dean's symptoms would quite probably be dramatic and painful. Sweat was literally pouring from every surface of Dean's body and the muscle spasms had worsened markedly. His limbs and torso bucked wildly, as though he was having a grand mal seizure, making it difficult for Brenda to keep his writhing form from jettisoning itself from the bed. Dean's back and neck were arched back stiffly, the muscles of his neck tightening so that his moans of pain came out as little more than strangled grunts.

Dean's skin had taken on a strange bluish pallor as his breaths came in short, choking rasps. His eyes were thrown wide in panic and he clawed viciously at the bed sheets as he struggled to force fresh air into his lungs.

"It's alright, Dean. I'm here, buddy. Everything'll be ok. Bobby's here and we're gonna figure this all out so you can get better."

As strange as it seemed, Sam actually found himself grinning. Although Dean was enduring yet more suffering and agony, the tortured writhing and thrashing was better than the blank, hollow stares of unresponsiveness that had held Dean captive for the past few days.

As Sam continued to talk soothingly, Dean's body began to relax and the convulsive movements subsided to intermittent waves of muscle cramps. The cramping was so severe that Sam could literally see whole muscle groups bunching into rock-hard formations, causing Dean to cry out in pain.

Bobby had returned to Dean's bedside, having been awakened by the sounds of Dean's distress. He had assured Sam that all was as he had expected and that the tea was helping to turn the tide of Dean's declining health.

* * *

Sam had continued to assist Dean with Bobby's tea and within a few hours the muscle cramping had diminished to ripples of occasional quivering. Finally finding relief from his anguish, Dean fell deeply asleep.

Seeing that Dean had quieted, Sam had finally consented to lie back down on his bed. Although Brenda, Gordy and Bobby had all been in at different points to give Dean more tea, Sam had been unaware as his overtaxed body surrendered to its need for sleep.

It wasn't until almost noon that Dean finally awakened. His mind was still foggy and his eyes slowly scanned the room, stopping on each object long enough for his brain to process what he was seeing.

As Dean's awareness of his surroundings increased, so too did his awareness of a profound weakness, accompanied by a gnawing pain. Every muscle had been over-exerted, sapped of strength and left screaming in protest of the severe cramping they'd experienced throughout the long night. Even the simple and reflexive act of breathing pummeled Dean's consciousness with a deep and unending misery.

Scrunching his face against the pain, Dean slowly turned his head to the left and continued scanning the room. He noted a familiar form curled into a fetal position on the other bed. He tried several times to speak but had not been able to grind out even a single word. He took as deep a breath as his complaining muscles would allow and tried again, his voice nothing more than a croaking whisper.

"S-s-ammy?"

* * *

**To be continued…**


	19. I'm Free

**Disclaimer: **No infringement intended. I'm not earning any profits from doing this…although, if I was, I'd rather earn Dean and Sam than money!

**About the chapter title:** "I'm Free" is one of the tracks from The Who's 1969 rock opera, "Tommy"…about a young deaf, dumb and blind man who suddenly awakens from his catatonic state to find a new enlightenment, much like Dean. I haven't done it with every chapter, but I do like using classic rock references for chapter titles.

**From the previous chapter:**

_Sam had continued to assist Dean with Bobby's tea and within a few hours the muscle cramping had diminished to ripples of occasional quivering. Finally finding relief from his anguish, Dean fell deeply asleep. _

_Seeing that Dean had quieted, Sam had finally consented to lie back down on his bed. Although Brenda, Gordy and Bobby had all been in at different points to give Dean more tea, Sam had been unaware as his overtaxed body surrendered to its need for sleep._

_It wasn't until almost noon that Dean finally awakened. His mind was still foggy and his eyes slowly scanned the room, stopping on each object long enough for his brain to process what he was seeing._

_As Dean's awareness of his surroundings increased, so too did his awareness of a profound weakness, accompanied by a gnawing pain. Every muscle had been over-exerted, sapped of strength and left screaming in protest of the severe cramping they'd experienced throughout the long night. Even the simple and reflexive act of breathing pummeled Dean's consciousness with a deep and unending misery._

_Scrunching his face against the pain, Dean slowly turned his head to the left and continued scanning the room. He noted a familiar form curled into a fetal position on the other bed. He tried several times to speak but had not been able to grind out even a single word. He took as deep a breath as his complaining muscles would allow and tried again, his voice nothing more than a croaking whisper._

"_S-s-ammy?"_

* * *

**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

**Chapter 19: I'm Free**

Dean watched as Sam stirred slightly but did not awaken. The effort to speak had renewed the sharp cramping in Dean's chest and produced a searing pain that tore through the back of Dean's dry throat. He hadn't intended it, but a mournful groan escaped Dean's control and hung miserably in the silence of the room.

Sam's sleeping form sprung to life, rolling over towards Dean and looking at him with eyes that flickered continuously from concern, to hopefulness, to questioning surprise and back again.

Tumbling from his bed, Sam reached Dean as he was trying unsuccessfully to speak again. "Dean! You're awake. Shh…don't try to talk." At that, Sam reached for the cup of Bobby's tea that was perched on the bedside stand and assisted Dean to drizzle some down his parched throat.

"Gym socks," Dean grunted out after taking several swallows of the liquid.

"What?" Sam wasn't altogether sure Dean comprehended what he was saying. The last time Dean had been able to speak he'd been confused and was mixing up words.

"Tastes…like…dirty…socks."

Sam laughed and pulled Dean into a hug. Oh, God how he'd prayed for this moment.

Dean could feel Sam shaking and it scared him more than any demon, spirit or monster ever could. Sam was definitely the more sensitive of the two brothers, but Dean knew Sam…and Sam wasn't any candy-ass. Something had to be majorly wrong with Sam to have him shaking like some timid, little Chihuahua. A sense of panic rose in Dean as Sam desperately clung to him gently rocking and shaking.

"Sammy? You ok?"

Sam pushed back from the embrace, his eyes glistening with relief, and blew out a choked laugh. "Me? Jesus, Dean…What about _you_? I thought I was gonna lose you. But Bobby's tea…"

Dean appeared mystified. "Bobby's here? That was tea? Ugh…he…makes a…lousy…tea."

Neither boy had seen nor heard Bobby come to the door of the room. "Yeah, well, that lousy tea saved your sorry ass."

Turning to see his old friend, Dean grinned widely and panted out, "Martha…Stewart…you're not."

"You're right," Bobby agreed. "I'm much better looking and, unlike Martha, I've managed to keep _my_ ass outta jail."

Dean laughed causing ripples of agony across his chest and the room spun briefly. He grimaced and shut his eyes tightly against the pain. He held his breath until the discomfort subsided and then opened his eyes again to see Sam's concerned face.

"If you're even thinking about any more of that 'chick-flick' shit, you can knock it off right now, dude. I'm good, Sammy."

"Yeah, right," Sam agreed sarcastically. "…and it's Sam."

"Whatever you say, Francis."

"Alright you two," Bobby admonished. "We've gotta get down to business. That tea's only gonna work so for long so we've gotta move fast to figure out just where Sekhmet and Dean crossed paths."

"The Destroyer? I really think I'd remember running into some dried up, old Egyptian bitch," Dean stated sardonically. "Seems to me the whole mummified thing would be a dead give away, don't you think?" Dean waggled his eyebrows in a suggestive manner.

"Unless," Sam theorized, ignoring Dean's bad pun, "…unless she found a way to take a new form…maybe a younger form."

Bobby nodded his agreement. "We need to make a list of every woman Dean's had contact with since you got here and then start eliminating them."

"That shouldn't be too hard," Dean asserted, gesturing at Sam. "Grandma, over there, only let me have one night of fun before volunteering us to hard labor here at Stalag 13."

"You've loved it and you know it, Dean," Gordy said with a laugh as he appeared at the doorway with two plates in hand, each stacked high with sandwiches, chips and carrot sticks. "Commandant Brenda," he went on, playing along with Dean's joke, "heard you two stirring up here and sent me up with your bread and water. She figured Dean wouldn't be up to coming down for it just yet."

Dean winced as he tried to push himself up onto his elbows. He couldn't remember ever being so sore, not even after he'd come out on the losing end of his encounter back at the cabin with the demon that had killed their Mom.

Sam, Gordy and Bobby had all made advances to assist him, but Dean waved them all off. Admitting he was anything less than one-hundred percent fit and ready to do battle was something that had never been in Dean Winchester's play book. He wasn't about to change that now. _Hell, Sammy's already a nervous wreck, letting him know just how much I really hurt isn't gonna help matters._

After several minutes of struggling and multiple winces, groans and grimmaces that popped out despite Dean's attempts to control them, he had finally managed to situate himself with his back against the headboard and his legs extended out in front of him. He leaned his head back, eyes closed, and waited for his tortured muscles to quiet before he opened them again.

As his vision cleared, Dean's eyes focused on Bobby who was standing next to his bed with his hand cradling a mug towards Dean and indicating that he should drink more of the tea that he had prepared.

"I'm not sure what's worse…Sekhmet or Bobby's tea," Dean whined.

"Now don't you give me any guff there, boy. You might be bigger now, but I turned you over my knee more than once when you were a kid and I can do it again if I have to. Drink up."

Sam worked hard at stifling a laugh but his obvious enjoyment over Bobby one-upping Dean was evident.

Dean shot him a look and Sam just shrugged and quickly changed the subject.

"You know, while we've got Gordy here to help us, we should run though everyone Dean's been around. Gordy's lived here all of his life and if Sekhmet has possessed anyone, Gordy ought to be able to see changes in their behaviors and personalities," Sam suggested.

"I'd be glad to help," Gordy offered. "Who are you wondering about?"

"Well," Dean began, "there was that waitress, Rachel, at the diner."

"And the brunette cashier," Sam mentioned. "What was her name? She was pretty ticked with you."

Dean's memory flipped back to how Sam had sabotaged his amorous advances towards the girl. His brow crinkled at the thought and he shot Sam yet another disapproving look. "Julie. Her name was Julie. And she wouldn't have been ticked off if geek boy hadn't scared her away."

"No," Gordy interjected before the conversation could degenerate any further into a brotherly spat. "I've known Rachel and Julie since they were born. There's nothing unusual going on with them. It can't be either of them."

"There was a whole fire hall full of women at the spaghetti supper," Sam mentioned. "I suppose any number of them could have done it…maybe even slipped something in Dean's food or drinks."

"I don't think so," Gordy disagreed. "That was family-style dining. Everyone at the table served themselves from the large serving bowls. No one could guarantee that Dean would take any of it."

"Anyway," Bobby theorized, "that would have meant that everyone that ate or drank from those serving vessels, including you Sam, would have been affected, too."

Dean had stopped eating after only a few bites and set his plate on the table beside the bed. Sam noted that Dean was no longer eating and had taken to staring at the welts on his inner right forearm.

Dean's face had gone pale and his vacant expression turned to one of horrified realization. He mumbled so softly to himself that Sam couldn't make out what he was saying.

"Dean," Sam said from what seemed to Dean to be a million miles away. "Dean…you ok, bro? Are you gonna throw up?"

Dean's thoughts were racing so fast that he didn't respond. Instead, he traced the welts on his right arm with the fingertips of his left hand.

"Dean." Sam's voice was becoming more insistent. "Dean, what's wrong?"

Dean was still lost in thought and vague, fuzzy memories as Sam clasped him firmly by both shoulders and shook him lightly. The sudden, violent movement sent pain screaming throughout Dean's assaulted muscles and broke his thousand yard stare.

"Sekhmet…the beer," was all Dean whispered.

"Yeah, we know it was Sekhmet, Dean." Sam's eyes searched Dean's face for any assurance that he was alright.

"No, the beer…it was the beer," Dean said with breathless shock.

"What was the beer, Dean?"

Sam shot Bobby a concerned look, fearful that Bobby's tea had already quit working.

"That's how she got to me, Sammy. She said it was a family crest. How could I have been so dumb?"

"Dean, what are you talking about?" Sam could no longer contain his anxiety. "You're not making any sense."

Dean took a deep breath and looked Sam square in the eyes. "I know who it was, Sam. It was Marissa. _She's_ Sekhmet."

* * *

**To be continued…**


	20. Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This

**Disclaimer: **Chapter 1 lays it all on the line.

**From the previous chapter:**

"_Sekhmet…the beer," was all Dean whispered._

"_Yeah, we know it was Sekhmet, Dean." Sam's eyes searched Dean's face for any assurance that he was alright._

"_No, the beer…it was the beer," Dean said with breathless shock._

"_What was the beer, Dean?"_

_Sam shot Bobby a concerned look, fearful that Bobby's tea had already quit working._

"_That's how she got to me, Sammy. She said it was a family crest. How could I have been so dumb?"_

"_Dean, what are you talking about?" Sam could no longer contain his anxiety. "You're not making any sense."_

_Dean took a deep breath and looked Sam square in the eyes. "I know who it was, Sam. It was Marissa. **She's** Sekhmet."_

* * *

**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

**Chapter 20: Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This**

"How can you be so sure Marissa is Sekhmet?" Bobby queried.

"After we left the diner," Dean answered, "we stopped at a bar and each had a beer. Before we were even done with them, she wanted to go back to her place. When we got there she insisted I try some of her home-brewed beer. It didn't taste like regular beer. It was kinda…well, sweet…and didn't seem to have much kick to it."

Bobby nodded knowingly. "Ancient Egyptians used honey as a fermenting agent. It gave the beer a much sweeter taste than modern beers. And it didn't have much of a kick because it only contained about five to six percent alcohol."

Dean pointed at the welts on his right forearm and continued. "The label on the bottle had this symbol on it. It seemed vaguely familiar, but when I asked Marissa about it, she said it was part of her family crest. I never dawned on me that it might be something more. But now…I think she must have cursed me through her beer."

The four men sat quietly considering the theory that Dean had put forth. It certainly seemed to be a plausible idea. Marissa was the only woman that wasn't known to Gordy, a life-long resident, and with whom Dean had had intimate contact. Also, she had seemed focused on getting Dean to drink a beer that she had brewed herself and Sekhmet was closely connected with beer in the ancient Egyptian culture.

"Ewwww," Dean whined in disgust, breaking the overpowering silence in the room. A shiver of repulsion crawled up his spine as he thought back to his night with Marissa. "I did the Satin Sheet Shimmy with a _demon._"

"Shit," Sam complained, "I can't believe I didn't figure this out before. What was I thinking? Oh God, Dean, I'm sorry…I should have known…I should have caught this so much sooner."

Dean flashed a quizzical look at Sam and quickly followed it up with a look of stern reproach. "Sam, how could you have known? _I_ didn't know and I was the one stupid enough to get myself into this mess. This was not your fault and I don't want to hear you saying it was."

"But, Dean," Sam wailed, "Marissa practically telegraphed her real identity right to us and I totally missed it. Timkis! Her last name is Timkis!"

"So?" exclaimed Bobby, Gordy and Dean in unison.

"Reverse it. S…I…K…M…I…T. Phonetically, that sounds like Sekhmet."

"Ok, that's it," Dean proclaimed, "I'm officially removing that fabric-softener teddy bear from the top of my hunting list. Even if I have to crawl on my hands and knees to dust that little bitch, Sekhmet, I will."

* * *

By nightfall, Bobby's tea had made Dean strong enough that he could get out of bed and stiffly shuffle to the bathroom. The shower he'd taken had worn Dean out, but he was finding that he needed shorter and shorter rest periods before he was strong enough to be mobile again.

The tea didn't taste any better the more Dean drank of it, but he had to admit that it seemed to be helping. And if that's what it took to make him fit enough to go after Sekhmet, then he'd just go on drinking in silent disgust.

Sam, Gordy and Dean had brainstormed a battle plan and Dean asserted that he would not be left out of the hunt. He and Sam had argued about it, but Dean wasn't about to give in. _That bitch used my love of classic rock, beer and beautiful women against me and I'm gonna be there to take her down, come Hell or high water._

" 'Night, Sammy," Dean mumbled out sleepily after Sam had extinguished the light on the stand between their beds.

"Dean…" Sam started, then thought better of it. He had considered broaching the subject of Dean not coming along on tomorrow's hunt, but knew Dean's mind was set. No amount of talking was going to change his resolve. Sam had known that the instant he had tried, unsuccessfully, to pull his trump card. If his puppy dog eyes hadn't changed Dean's mind…nothing would.

Sam had never known his puppy eyes to fail in the past, and knowing they had this time only served to punctuate to both Sam and Bobby just how deeply affected Dean had been by all of this.

Of course, Dean would never admit to the emotional side of things, to his fear of dying. His fear, not of the dying part itself, actually, but to his fear of leaving Sam alone; leaving him unprotected. For as long as Dean could remember that was his job…protect Sammy. His father had said so that horrible night back in Lawrence when evil came to the Winchesters and proceeded to lay the cards on the table. The thought of what might happen if he wasn't there to do his protecting job scared Dean more than anyone could even imagine.

"If you're gonna tell me not to come tomorrow, you can save your breath," Dean hissed.

"No. I just…I wanted…I need you to know that I'm watching your back…that…I love you."

Sam's words hung thickly in the air. Just when he thought Dean had either fallen asleep or was trying desperately to avoid another chick-flick moment, Sam heard a faint whisper.

"I know, Sam. Me, too."

* * *

Sam hadn't slept well that night and when dawn arrived bright and obnoxious, he'd already been awake for almost three hours. Sam just couldn't seem to relax. He was still worried about Dean's ability to hunt safely after having been so ill, so recently.

Any reservations he still harbored were pushed aside as he saw Dean returning from his shower and dressing. No evidence of Dean's recent problems with balance or muscle control was noticeable. If Sam hadn't seen for himself just how sick Dean had been the past few days, he would have thought it a crazy notion. The Dean that stood before him now was the same Dean he'd known his whole life…the strong, vibrant, battle-hardened, tough-as-nails hunter.

Sam marveled as Dean had jogged down the steps, pulled a kitchen chair from its place under the table, plopped his frame down and proceeded to stack his plate with seemingly endless quantities of sausages, pancakes and hash browns.

Just a few short days ago, Dean had hardly been able to eat even a few bites. Now, Sam sat in wide-eyed wonder as Dean stuffed forkful after forkful into his mouth, pausing only long enough to swig down his morning coffee.

"Ummm, Brenda," Dean mumbled through yet another mouthful. "You've outdone yourself this morning."

"Glad you like it," Brenda cooed. Like Sam, Brenda was having a hard time juxtaposing the current Dean with the Dean of the recent past. _Maybe Bobby was wrong. Maybe the curse had worn off on its own. There's no way something as simple as a tea could be responsible for such a miraculous recovery._

Brenda couldn't be sure if the tea was responsible or not, but she knew one thing for sure. Dean was back to being Dean and if it meant seeing to it that he drank the tea, then she'd do it. She walked over and plunked down a mug of Bobby's steaming hot tea right in front of Dean, who wrinkled up his nose in aversion. He appeared to be readying to refuse the curative drink, but Brenda cut him off before he could react.

"Don't you even think you're getting out of this house this morning, mister, before you drink your tea. If I have to tie you down until you drink it, I will."

"Oooo, Brenda," Dean purred. "I never took you for being one of those women that was into bondage. Does Gordy know about your kinky side?"

Brenda flushed then laughed heartily. "Seems as though my 'kinky side' doesn't bother you too much."

"Don't encourage him, Brenda," Sam warned. "He could go on all day like that, pervert that he is."

Sam turned and looked at Dean. "You know, Dean, you would be a lot easier to deal with if you were the strong, silent type."

* * *

Sam, Dean and Bobby had left Gordy behind that morning to tend to his farm chores while they set out to pay Marissa a visit at her place. The trouble was, things just weren't going their way.

Dean was absolutely certain of the location of the house Marissa had taken him to, but when the trio pulled up out front, it was obvious that the building had long ago been abandoned and left to rot under nature's onslaught. Although the house still stood, the clapboard siding was falling off in large sections and the weathered window shutters dangled precariously, if they remained at all. Numerous windows had been shattered over the years and the tattered remains of lacey curtains billowed in and out at the whim of the breeze.

"I don't understand this," Dean mused, "I was just here a few weeks ago. I'm sure of it. And I can tell you the place sure as hell didn't look like this!"

"And you're one-hundred percent sure this is the place?" Bobby questioned.

"Right hand up to God, cross my heart and hope to d-…"

"Dean," Sam cut in suddenly. "Just leave it, ok? Leave it."

"It's just an expression, Samantha," Dean said defensively. "Don't go getting your panties into a twist, you big girl."

"God, Dean! How much of an asshole can you be?" Sam bristled. "I just spent the past few weeks watching you die by inches and now you're standing here making jokes about death! It terrifies me that unless we can find some way to get this bitch, I'm gonna end up watching you die all over again!"

"Look, guys," Bobby admonished, "…we don't have time for this. We've got to figure out what our next move is. Since it's obvious this place is abandoned, I can only think that Sekhmet used her powers as a goddess spirit to make it appear differently to Dean. I think we should get in there and check the place out to be sure. If we're lucky, we'll find her altar and beer, destroy them and forget any of this ever happened."

* * *

**To be continued…**

**Chapter title info: **Ok, so it's not mullet rock…but the 1961 Shirelles hit, "Mama Said (There'd Be Days Like This)", is still a classic. And the song title fit so well with things just not going the way the gang had hoped.


	21. The Struggle Within

**Disclaimer: **Wish I owned 'em…but I don't.

**From the previous chapter:**

"_And you're one-hundred percent sure this is the place?" Bobby questioned._

"_Right hand up to God, cross my heart and hope to d-…"_

"_Dean," Sam cut in suddenly. "Just leave it, ok? Leave it."_

"_It's just an expression, Samantha," Dean said defensively. "Don't go getting your panties into a twist, you big girl."_

"_God, Dean! How much of an asshole can you be?" Sam bristled. "I just spent the past few weeks watching you die by inches and now you're standing here making jokes about death! It terrifies me that unless we can find some way to get this bitch, I'm gonna end up watching you die all over again!"_

"_Look, guys," Bobby admonished, "…we don't have time for this. We've got to figure out what our next move is. Since it's obvious this place is abandoned, I can only think that Sekhmet used her powers as a goddess spirit to make it appear differently to Dean. I think we should get in there and check the place out to be sure. If we're lucky, we'll find her altar and beer, destroy them and forget any of this ever happened."_

* * *

**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

**Chapter 21: The Struggle Within**

A complete sweep of the ramshackle farmhouse had turned out to be a complete waste of time. The EMF meter had remained silent, prompting Sam to repeatedly question whether the instrument that Dean had pieced together from an old Walkman was actually even working. Dean had taken the questioning as a personal insult and took great joy in pointing out that the professionally built thermal scanner had been equally unsuccessful in finding anything.

The unsuccessful sweep of the house had made it blatantly clear to the hunters that until they could figure out where to look for Sekhmet next, their attempts at stopping her…and saving Dean…were effectively neutered. Dejectedly, the three friends decided to return to the Hoover's to regroup and formulate a new strategy.

As the men strode through the door of the neat-as-a-pin farmhouse they found Brenda puttering in the kitchen. "I thought you boys might be coming back soon so I went ahead and made some lunch. Oh, and I also heated more of Bobby's tea for Dean."

"That's not tea," Dean asserted with sarcasm. "That's carburetor cleaner that Bobby's trying to pass off as tea."

Bobby had continued on through the kitchen to consult one of his reference books. He had just turned the corner around the doorframe when Dean had made his snarky comment and Bobby shouted from the next room, "I heard that!"

Brenda set the plates of food on the table and the boys settled into their chairs. They ate in silence as they mulled over their unsuccessful hunt to find Sekhmet.

Dean had hoped that Brenda had forgotten to give him Bobby's tea when she deposited a mug filled to the brim in front of him. Dean sighed heavily at the thought of more of the awful tasting brew but begrudgingly forced down more of Bobby's tea.

Shoving the last bite of food into his mouth, Dean pushed his chair back and rose to clear his plate. Sam did likewise and had just set his plate onto the countertop next to the sink when a familiar sensation invaded his brain.

Sam shook his head slightly, and clutched at the bridge of his nose. "Ughh…man."

Brenda glanced up from the dishes she was washing. Sam was pale and rubbing furiously at his forehead, his brow knitted into a tangle of discomfort and uncertainty.

"Are you ok, Sam?"

Dean, who had already settled back into his chair at the table, was doing his best to choke down yet another mug full of Bobby's distasteful tea. At Brenda's question he turned in his chair and peered at his younger brother.

Realizing what was about to happen, Dean jumped up and rushed to Sam's side.

"Son of a…damn it, Sam. You know this shit freaks me out. We've already got enough to deal with. Why now?"

Sam continued to rub at his temples as his breathing quickened and became more ragged. His face lost all expression as his eyes glazed over and his knees buckled.

Dean lowered Sam safely to the floor, his rapid breathing continuing as his body stiffened and he fisted large knots of Dean's shirt in each hand.

"Oh, my God, Dean. What's wrong with him? What's happening?"

"It's ok, Brenda. He'll be alright. This is just…just something Sam does sometimes." Dean really wasn't sure how else to explain it quickly and now just wasn't the time for a lengthy heart-to-heart. "We're just gonna keep him from hurting himself and wait for this to be over."

Several minutes had elapsed before Sam had finally snapped out of his vision and leaned limply into Dean's chest. Dean could tell that this vision had taken a lot more out of Sam than usual and he was giving him plenty of time to gather himself before asking him about it.

Sam was still seated on the floor leaning into Dean's protective embrace and intermittently grinding his fists into his eyes at the residual migraine, when Bobby and Gordy walked in.

Spying the two arriving men, Brenda blurted out, "Sam's had a seizure or something. Oh, God, I can't go through with Sam what we went through with Dean."

Bobby looked down at Dean, a mixture of concern and questioning crossing his face. "Was this one of his…um…"

Bobby allowed his question to go unfinished. He wasn't sure exactly how much Dean and Sam had revealed to the Hoovers and he didn't want to open up a can of worms they didn't have the time nor energy to deal with.

"Yeah, it was. This one really threw him for a loop so I've been giving him a chance to get his breath back."

Sam's voice was little more than a breathy whisper. "I'm fine. Got a headache, though."

Sam pushed back away from Dean and massaged at his head a bit more. He couldn't remember ever having a vision that had left his head pounding so viciously despite the fact that he'd seen nothing particularly valuable. What good was suffering through the after-effects of a vision if he wasn't even going to be shown something useful?

The harder Sam concentrated, trying to figure out just what the vision was supposed to mean, the more intense the residual pain became. The room suddenly felt sweltering and a thin glaze of perspiration sprung first across Sam's upper lip and then gradually crept over his face, chest and arms. Despite feeling way too hot, Sam began to shiver uncontrollably and his teeth chattered out a staccato rhythm.

"Is this normal?" Bobby questioned. Although Dean had once told him about Sam's burgeoning abilities, starting first with the dreams, then progressing to waking visions and then to the unexplained movement of the cabinet at Max's, Bobby had never actually witnessed one of Sam's visions and was unsure what to expect.

Dean looked up with a worried expression on his face. "I can't be sure. He's never done this before. Usually, he just gets a headache and feels kinda crappy for a while."

"Sam," Dean coaxed, "can you tell me what you saw?"

"Not much," Sam managed between shivers. "Sand."

Dean was becoming exasperated. Sam had had a vision that apparently meant nothing and now he was being tortured by these strange side-effects. It just didn't seem to be making any sense. "Sand? That's all you saw and it's left you like this? That's not much to go on."

"I know it's not," Sam whispered. "But that's all I saw and I can't…"

Sam's explanation was cut short by a sudden, searing, white-hot pain that shot through his whole body and caused him to arch backwards fiercely. The violent and unexpected contraction of his muscles caused an unconscious cry of anguish to escape from Sam's lips.

"Sam! Sammy! Talk to me! What's happening?" Dean's voice was filled with panic. Although Sam had been experiencing visions for some time now, Dean was still unnerved by them…and that was when they did nothing more than produce a nasty headache. This was way beyond anything Sam had ever experienced before. Dean had never seen Sam in such obvious distress during his visions and it left him roiling with apprehension and anxiety.

Dean pushed a hank of stray hair from Sam's forehead and was shocked at the heat that rolled from Sam's body like a blast furnace. Dean looked worriedly at Bobby. "Oh, man…he's burning up. What the hell's going on?"

Dean's attention was quickly brought back to Sam as he curled up on his side, his arms clutching desperately at his abdomen as his face contorted in pain. Loud groans filled the air as Sam's breathing started coming in labored gasps. Within minutes Sam's lips took on a bluish tint as his breathing turned into a stridorous wheezing and he struggled to get even the smallest amount of air into his burning lungs.

Just when Dean was certain that Sam was dying in front of them, his inexplicable symptoms cleared as suddenly as they had begun and his curled body slumped loosely on the floor.

Dean reached out to his brother's flaccid form and gently turned him onto his back. At his touch, he immediately noticed that the heat that had been pouring from Sam's flesh was now gone. "Sammy?" Dean breathed cautiously. "Sammy, you ok?"

Sam's head lolled side to side as he struggled to regain his focus and remove himself from the debilitating effects of this latest vision. His head was swimming as his eyes fluttered slowly open.

Dean leaned over his brother's body and spoke soothingly to him, trying to get him to respond. "Sammy, I'm here, buddy. Are you gonna be ok?"

"Mmm…" was the only sound Sam could manage before a new sensation flooded his senses and he rolled quickly back onto his left side. An acrid taste had filled his mouth and his stomach lurched violently in great heaving waves, culminating in a voluminous rush of bloody vomit.

Sam collapsed back onto his back in sheer exhaustion, a thin rivulet of blood snaking its way from the corner of his mouth and convulsing its way down across his cheek. His breathing was still heavy, but it was no longer characterized by the labored wheezing he'd been experiencing. Sam's eyes were open and appeared to be focused but he had yet to respond and Dean had had enough. "That's it. I'm taking you to the hospital. Vomiting blood is just not normal, visions or no visions."

* * *

**To be continued…**

**About the chapter title: **Ok, ok…so I've already used a Metallica song as a chapter title (Chapter 6: For Whom the Bell Tolls), but Dean would be proud. "The Struggle Within" comes from the self-titled 1991 album "Metallica"…better known to fans as "The Black Album".


	22. Killer Queen

**Disclaimer: **I don't even come close to owning Sam, Dean or any of the SN crew.

**From the previous chapter:**

_Just when Dean was certain that Sam was dying in front of them, his inexplicable symptoms cleared as suddenly as they had begun and his curled body slumped loosely on the floor._

_Dean reached out to his brother's flaccid form and gently turned him onto his back. At his touch, he immediately noticed that the heat that had been pouring from Sam's flesh was now gone. "Sammy?" Dean breathed cautiously. "Sammy, you ok?"_

_Sam's head lolled side to side as he struggled to regain his focus and remove himself from the debilitating effects of this latest vision. His head was swimming as his eyes fluttered slowly open._

_Dean leaned over his brother's body and spoke soothingly to him, trying to get him to respond. "Sammy, I'm here, buddy. Are you gonna be ok?"_

"_Mmm…" was the only sound Sam could manage before a new sensation flooded his senses and he rolled quickly back onto his left side. An acrid taste had filled his mouth and his stomach lurched violently in great heaving waves, culminating in a voluminous rush of bloody vomit._

_Sam collapsed back onto his back in sheer exhaustion, a thin rivulet of blood snaking its way from the corner of his mouth and convulsing its way down across his cheek. His breathing was still heavy, but it was no longer characterized by the labored wheezing he'd been experiencing. Sam's eyes were open and appeared to be focused but he had yet to respond and Dean had had enough. "That's it. I'm taking you to the hospital. Vomiting blood is just not normal, visions or no visions."_

* * *

**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

****

**Chapter 22: Killer Queen**

"That's what this is all about?" Gordy questioned incredulously. "Sam has _visions_?" He had emphasized the last word as though he was having a hard time believing he was even saying it, never mind allowing himself to think it was possible.

Dean wasn't about to go into a lengthy explanation, but he knew he had to say something. "Yeah, Sam's been having visions for about six months now. They just started out of the blue as dreams but have gotten progressively more intense. This is the worst one he's ever had."

Sam was beginning to stir and had already wiped the blood from his face when Dean turned to face him again. "Do you think you can walk to the car if I help you?"

"No." When Dean's face contorted with even greater concern, Sam continued on. "I mean, I'm not going to the hospital. I'm better now."

"Sam, you just vomited blood. That's not something to play around with," Dean urged. "You need to go to the hospital and get checked out."

"No, Dean, I don't," Sam stated angrily. "For whatever reason, I _felt_ what I was seeing in the vision."

"Bobby," Dean implored, "will you please tell him he needs to be seen by a doctor?"

"So, what you're saying, Sam," Bobby postulated, "is that your symptoms directly corresponded with what you saw in your vision?"

Dean flashed a perturbed look at Bobby for not backing him up about Sam seeing a doctor, but said nothing, primarily because Sam didn't give him the chance.

"That's what I'm saying," Sam confirmed. "And now that the vision's over, so are the symptoms…except that I'm really tired and, of course, the usual headache I get."

Dean was still ready to scoop Sam up and rush him to the medical center when Sam intentionally cut him off. "I wasn't sure what the heck the sand from the first vision was all about until this one. I had a vision of what I think was Sekhmet's husband."

"That would be Ptah," Bobby agreed. "He was the creator God of Ancient Egypt. Even though Sekhmet was his queen, Ptah wasn't able to control her vengeful and killing ways."

"Anyway," Sam went on, "It looks like Ptah found out that Sekhmet was having a relationship with one of her high priests…that Kahotep dude that asked her to kill that Pharaoh, Khufu. Ptah had the priest killed because he wouldn't break off the relationship."

Bobby nodded knowingly. "It was strictly forbidden for gods and goddesses to have intimate relations with mortals."

"Ok, Bobby," Dean quipped. "I'd always thought you studying up on this ancient Egyptian shit was bordering on making you as geeky as my college boy brother, but I can say now, I'm glad that you did. Although, I really don't see that this vision is much help."

"Well," Sam continued, "Sekhmet's main M.O. was revenge and something tells me she didn't disappoint. I'm not sure what it means, but in my vision I saw Ptah touching one of the totems the priests used in worshipping Sekhmet. And then I saw, and felt, his death…high fevers, abdominal pain, vomiting and wheezing, labored breathing."

"Holy hell, it really _must_ be true," an astonished Bobby said. "No one's ever been able to prove it because they can't obtain viable specimens since the relics are so old."

All eyes were on Bobby as he suddenly pulled himself from his thoughts. "The cult of Sekhmet was especially strong and active. As many as seven hundred or more of her statue totems have been recovered on archaeological digs. She was said to wield so much power that just obtaining one of her statues would impart that person with great power. As a result the priests did whatever it took to protect the totems from theft. It's long been held that the priests of Sekhmet would actually coat the totems in anthrax to discourage thieves, but no one's ever been able to prove it."

"The last thing that I saw in my vision was Sekhmet being buried alive," Sam related. "Any idea what that might be all about?"

"Yeah," Bobby affirmed. "According to the legend, their son, Nefertum, punished her despicable behavior by having her buried alive with his father so that Ptah could watch over her in eternity and prevent her from 'misbehaving'."

"And it worked…until recently," Sam asserted.

"And, so why did it suddenly stop working?" Dean challenged.

"You."

"Me?" a befuddled Dean exclaimed. "How could I possibly have anything to do with Sekhmet's return?"

"Do you remember that mummy that you dusted a few jobs back in Cleveland? That was Sekhmet's priestly lover, Kahotep," Sam clarified.

Bobby's face registered a resigned understanding of the situation at hand. "When Dean killed him it released his soul…and unlocked Sekhmet from her prison. So, to avenge the fact that Dean snuffed her lover, she went after Dean."

Dean sighed heavily. "Ok, wonderful, so we've all reviewed the events of this week's episodes of the Ancient Egyptian version of General Hospital. It still doesn't put us any closer to figuring out where to find Sekhmet."

"Ah," Sam proclaimed, "…that's where you're wrong. Sekhmet's an Egyptian half-lioness. She's likely to be found where she'd be most comfortable…with her own kind, in an Egyptian setting."

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "I can't believe we didn't think of that sooner! She's got to be holed up at that wildlife refuge we passed on the way up here…on Route 59. The billboard touted their Egyptian-themed lion exhibit. Hell, she's practically hiding in plain sight!"

* * *

**To be continued…**

**About the chapter title: **"Killer Queen" is a song from the English rock band Queen's 1974 album, "Sheer Heart Attack". It's about a femme fatale/assassin masquerading as a high class prostitute.

**About Sekhmet: **Sekhmet truly is an ancient Egyptian goddess. Her original reputation was that of the Destroyer/Lady of Pestilence. It is believed that the priests devoted to her truly _did_ coat her totems in anthrax to prevent theft, as her statues were said to bring the owner great power. Her legend also relates that she was buried alive with Ptah because of her uncontrollably murderous behaviors. There are still people today that worship Sekhmet, although they've done a modern-era, spin-doctor number in regards to her original homicidal ways and turned her into a more "kindness and kittens" sort of gal that the ancients would be hard-pressed to recognize.

**I know the chapter was short...but it was the best place to stop. I'm hoping to get another chapter up tonight, but we'll see!**


	23. War Games

**Disclaimer: **I feel like I own Sam & Dean for one hour every Thursday night. Other than that…can't claim 'em.

**From the previous chapter:**

"_Do you remember that mummy that you dusted a few jobs back in Cleveland? That was Sekhmet's priestly lover, Kahotep," Sam clarified._

_Bobby's face registered a resigned understanding of the situation at hand. "When Dean killed him it released his soul…and unlocked Sekhmet from her prison. So, to avenge the fact that Dean snuffed her lover, she went after Dean."_

_Dean sighed heavily. "Ok, wonderful, so we've all reviewed the events of this week's episodes of the Ancient Egyptian version of General Hospital. It still doesn't put us any closer to figuring out where to find Sekhmet."_

"_Ah," Sam proclaimed, "…that's where you're wrong. Sekhmet's an Egyptian half-lioness. She's likely to be found where she'd be most comfortable…with her own kind, in an Egyptian setting."_

_Dean's eyebrows shot up. "I can't believe we didn't think of that sooner! She's got to be holed up at that wildlife refuge we passed on the way up here…on Route 59. The billboard touted their Egyptian-themed lion exhibit. Hell, she's practically hiding in plain sight!"_

* * *

**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

**Chapter 23: War Games**

Dean and Sam had finished sorting through their arsenal of weapons, taking special care to make sure that they knew the locations of each and every one of them. Due to the unexpected traits of their prey, hunts often degenerated into varying degrees of controlled chaos and the thin line between life and death might depend wholly on knowing just where to find a specific item. This hunt would undoubtedly be no different and neither boy was willing to take any unnecessary chances.

The trio of hunters had all insisted that Gordy sit out of the rest of their investigations into Sekhmet's whereabouts. Not only was Gordy too well known to the people of the area to fly under the radar like Sam and Dean normally did, but his inexperience in hunting would make him a liability to the young hunters. The danger factor in hunting was high enough without bringing on someone that they would essentially have to baby-sit.

Gordy had protested, but finally acquiesced. He wanted so badly to help them but, in his heart, he realized that he'd only be putting them in more danger by trying. He knew he would never be able to live with himself if one of the boys got hurt or, God forbid, died because he had insisted on dabbling in a world where he didn't belong. Sam had agreed to Gordy's guess that they hunted wayward wildlife, but after witnessing everything that had happened recently, Gordy understood that the boys truly did hunt…it just wasn't the "wildlife" most people were willing or able to grasp and understand.

Gordy supposed that most folks might be upset that they'd been lied to on so many levels, that the people he and Brenda had opened their hearts and home to had been less than truthful with them initially. But the realization of what Sam and Dean really did, the evil they faced everyday, only served to deepen Gordy's genuine admiration for the boys.

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Dean had been happy to get this hunt in high gear. What he hadn't been happy about was the need to wear their "Blues Brothers" get up again. Brenda had only managed to compound his discomfiture by gushing on and on about how he and Sam looked as handsome in their suits as a young Frank Sinatra.

Sam could hardly believe he would be able to manage it, but it had turned out that Dean _had_ been perfectly capable of grumbling about Brenda's comments the _whole_ way to the Los Barba Wildlife Park. The grumbling had become so irritating, in fact, that Sam actually decided it was preferable to put one of Dean's more obnoxious mullet rock tapes in and turn up the volume, just to drown him out. He couldn't help but laugh to himself that almost as quickly as the music had begun, Dean _finally_ shut up about the suits_. Most babies need a "binky" to quiet down_, Sam thought. _My baby needs heavy metal_.

As Dean gently pulled the Impala to a stop in the parking lot of the wildlife park, Sam turned slightly in the passenger seat so that he could look at both Dean and an equally uncomfortably-suited Bobby, who was seated in the back. As a general rule, hunts really weren't all that fun…at least not to Sam…but, oh yeah, there were a few aspects of this one that Sam was going to be enjoying for some time to come. And seeing Dean and Bobby squirming in their suits was definitely something worth enjoying.

-------------------------------------------------------

The three men waltzed casually into the office of the preserve. The relatively scruffy looking man behind the counter looked up as the jangling bell positioned above the door announced their arrival. _Oh, great. Three 'stuffed shirts'. Far from the new-age hippie, tree-hugging, animal rights idiots that try to make my life a living hell, but not necessarily much better. Probably they're a bunch of tight-assed Mulders…and that never bodes well._

The plan had been for Sam to try his smooth, "good cop" approach with Dean backing him up with his "bad cop" routine should the preserve's owner be especially tight-lipped. "Hi, there," Sam crooned as he flashed an official looking ID. "I'm Agent Stills with the Exotic Animals Division of the U.S. Department of Agriculture."

Pointing in Bobby's direction, Sam continued, "That's Agent Nash…" Sam then gestured at Dean who was nosing his way around the various displays in the lobby. "…and that's Agent Crosby."

Sam cringed inwardly as he spewed out the names Dean had come up with for their fake identities. _I know Dean loves his classic rock, but isn't using names as familiar as Crosby, Stills and Nash kind of obvious? Someday, playing these games is gonna come back to bite us in the ass._

"Look, guys," the man gushed nervously, "…if this is about that new cat, I know I don't have an exotics license for her...but that's because I found her, I swear. I came to work the one morning and there she was, pacing the fence outside my lion enclosure. I couldn't just let her roam around loose, could I? She mighta hurt someone...so I just let her in. I was gonna get a license for her…honest."

"Take it easy, there…um…Phil," Sam assured as he'd spotted the name badge pinned to the owner's rather cheesy looking safari jacket. "We're not here to shut you down. We just want to talk with you about it…gather a few facts."

"Any ideas," Dean cut in impatiently, "…where she might have come from? I mean, it's not everyday that you find a lioness roaming free in rural Iowa."

"That's the weird, part," Phil asserted. "I haven't a clue where she came from. I assumed she'd escaped from a traveling circus, especially since she's got on a gold collar-type thing…like the ones you see on Egyptian tombs. Figured it was part of some show, or something. Frankly, with that collar on, she makes a damned fine addition to my Egypt-themed lion exhibit. And the fact that she didn't cost me a dime is even better. You know, exotic cats aren't cheap."

Bobby saw their opportunity and went with Phil's theory about the origins of the new lioness. "You're right about the cat. We received a report from a small traveling circus that one of their female lions had turned up missing. It seems this lioness is quite the Houdini," Bobby stated flatly. "Have there been any times she's disappeared from your facility since you took her in?"

"There have been a few times that I haven't seen her for a day or so…but, then again, this place is run as a preserve. That means the cats roam their hundred acre enclosure at will, just like in the wild. It's not unusual for me to go a day or so without spotting every cat I've got."

The information that Phil had provided had convinced the three hunters that they were now hot on Sekhmet's trail. Chances were good that Sekhmet had her altar stashed somewhere within the wooded portion of the large lion enclosure and had been switching back and forth between her human form and lion form in order to go after Dean.

"Any chance," Sam asked hopefully, "…you'd be able to confine the lions so that we can get a look at her? You know…make sure she's the one we're after."

"All of my other cats have been here a while," Phil explained, "They've been trained that when they hear a signal, to return to the confinement facilities at the rear of the property when needed. It sure makes vetting them a whole lot easier than having to track 'em down and tranq'ing them. But I don't think it'll help you much. This new one's a wily little sucker…can't get anywhere near her. I don't think she's gonna be easy to catch."

Dean's eyes lit up. "You just worry about confining the other lions. We'll worry about tracking Sekhmet down and sending her back to Hell…en…umm, Helen. Umm, that's her circus handler," Dean recovered quickly.

* * *

**To be continued…**

**About the chapter title: **"War Games" is the title of a Crosby, Stills & Nash song from their 1983 album entitled, "Allies". It had been written for use in the movie, "WarGames", and had even been used in early trailers for the movie, but never appeared in the finished film. The "Allies" album was one of CSN's lowest charting albums and is now currently out of print.


	24. Dance of Death

**Disclaimer: **Chapter 1 says it best.

**About the chapter title: **"Dance of Death" is the title track from Iron Maiden's 13th studio album, "Dance of Death", released in 2003.

**From the previous chapter:**

_The information that Phil had provided had convinced the three hunters that they were now hot on Sekhmet's trail. Chances were good that Sekhmet had her altar stashed somewhere within the wooded portion of the large lion enclosure and had been switching back and forth between her human form and lion form in order to go after Dean._

"_Any chance," Sam asked hopefully, "…you'd be able to confine the lions so that we can get a look at her? You know…make sure she's the one we're after."_

"_All of my other cats have been here a while," Phil explained, "They've been trained that when they hear a signal, to return to the confinement facilities at the rear of the property when needed. It sure makes vetting them a whole lot easier than having to track 'em down and tranq'ing them. But I don't think it'll help you much. This new one's a wily little sucker…can't get anywhere near her. I don't think she's gonna be easy to catch."_

_Dean's eyes lit up. "You just worry about confining the other lions. We'll worry about tracking Sekhmet down and sending her back to Hell…en…umm, Helen. Umm, that's her circus handler," Dean recovered quickly._

* * *

**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

"…Not aware of a presence so near to me, watching my every move.  
Feeling scared and I fell to my knees as something rushed me from the trees,  
Took me to an unholy place and that is where I fell from grace.  
Then they summoned me over to join in with them, to the dance of the dead…" –

_Dance of Death,_ Iron Maiden

**Chapter 24: Dance of Death**

Phil had agreed to work on getting the lions corralled in the veterinary facility at the back end of the preserve while the men went back to change into more appropriate hunting clothes. Dean was more than happy to lose his "Sinatra" suit and crawl back into something more his style; something with more of his usual "James-Dean-Rebel-Without-a-Cause" sort of look.

They'd returned to Los Barba Wildlife Park as quickly as they could and found that Phil had been successful in capturing and securely housing all of the lions except for Sekhmet. Phil had given them the unnerving news that he had not caught even a glimpse of the elusive lioness while completing his task. That meant that he really had no idea just where she might be within the expansive enclosure, a fact that increased the risk to the hunters exponentially.

As it was, Sekhmet was a tough opponent in her human form. But in her feline form, she was a wild, deadly and cunning killer with unequalled instincts. Every safety precaution would have to be implemented and strictly maintained.

Sam had been feeling pretty comfortable with the hunt while they were crossing the open, savannah-like portion of the habitat. The replica pyramids and Sphinx that dotted the open grassland provided few hiding places for Sekhmet and Sam found that fact to be comforting. The wide open nature of the area meant it would be more difficult for Sekhmet to get the drop on them and ambush. The closer they got to the wooded area, though, the more on edge Sam became.

Even if he'd not had his "spidey senses", as Dean liked to call them, it wouldn't have changed the way Sam felt. He knew that a lion was a more than capable hunter in wide open areas, but in more enclosed, wooded areas like the one they were facing, lions had the advantage. The forest provided ample cover and also gave the cat the additional ability of ambushing its prey from above.

If they had had any choice, neither hunter would have taken the chance of going into the densely forested area. But Phil had told them that a man-made cavern had been constructed near the center of the wooded area to mimic a natural shelter for the lions and they knew this would be a prime location to look for Sekhmet and her altar.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had taken more than forty-five minutes of nerve-wracking exploration before the hunters stumbled upon the cave that Phil had described to them. He had told them that the cave was a replica of a natural lion's liar that had been found in Africa, the entrance being at the top of a moderate-sized knoll and at the end of a narrow, twisting path, shielded from easy view. They carefully made their way into the chamber, guns consistently at the ready should Sekhmet decide to make an appearance.

As they reached the deepest recesses of the cavern, their large, powerful flashlights illuminated their surroundings and revealed a typically Egyptian altar, complete with totems to Sekhmet and the clay beer jars that fermented her evil brew. It had taken them mere minutes to destroy everything. Dean took great pleasure in using the butt of his gun to hammer the various statues of Sekhmet into tiny fragments of their former glory.

"Whew," Dean sighed. "I'm glad to say that's all over. Now I can stop drinking that so-called tea that Bobby made and we can get the hell outta this cow-town and never look back."

Bobby laughed. "I'll take the fact that you didn't call it carburetor cleaner this time, as your way of thanking me for rescuing your ass."

Sam was looking around the vaulted room, an expression of uncertainty and concern on his face. His eyes darted anxiously around the chamber trying to get a sense of what it was that was bothering him.

He should have been feeling a sense of celebratory relief like Bobby and Dean, but he just couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right…that they had missed something. It reminded him of the feeling he'd had when they were back in Lawrence, at the old house, and had thought they'd purged it of a particularly nasty poltergeist. He couldn't put his finger on it then when Missouri had asked him why he was concerned, and he really couldn't put his finger on it now, either.

"Damn, Sammy," Dean cajoled, "…could you be any more morose? It's over. You should be relieved."

"I don't know, Dean," Sam hesitantly declared. "I just have a weird feeling about this."

"The shining kind of feeling?" Dean inquired.

"No…I don't know…It's just…well...Doesn't this all seem too easy? I mean," Sam cautioned, "Sekhmet's nowhere to be found and we're able to walk right in, dish out some major whoop-ass on her altar, and now everything's cool again?"

"Geez, Sam," Dean concluded, "…can't you just be thankful that for once in our lives things actually went our way...that things went easily?"

Sam shrugged. "Yeah…I guess. It's just…" Sam sighed heavily. "I don't know…maybe you're right."

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As they returned to the cave's entrance, Dean and Bobby were still reveling in the luck they'd had in ending this hunt so easily. Sam slipped out the cave's entrance first and started back down the hill, carefully traversing the treacherously tiny pathway. Dean followed with Bobby bringing up the rear.

The pathway twisted savagely and Dean lost sight of Sam as he made his way down ahead of him. He was doing his best to catch up to him when he heard it; a sound he thought he'd never scrub from his brain no matter how long he lived.

He knew he had to be careful of his footing, but Sam's tortured screams pierced through the air and pushed Dean on at break-neck speed, his heart thumping wildly in his chest and the sound of his rushing blood pounding in his ears.

Bobby had been immediately behind Dean and they both turned the sharp bend of the trail together, a crumpled form evident about fifty yards ahead. Mindless of the danger of the loose ground under their feet, the two hunters sprinted ahead, finding Sam sprawled across the trail.

Dean dropped to his knees next to his injured brother, noting the deep gashes across his left cheek and the large crimson stains spreading quickly across the shredded remnants of his shirt and left pant leg.

Bobby had his gun raised and quickly scanned the area, but saw nothing lurking in the shadows. "Jesus, Dean," Bobby breathed heavily, "…what the shit's happening?"

Dean knelt next to his brother, his hands reaching out towards Sam and then withdrawing suddenly, as though he was afraid Sam would fall apart at his merest touch. "I don't know, Bobby," Dean snuffled. "I don't know. Oh, hell, Sammy, why didn't I listen to you? Somehow you knew that bitch wasn't gone and now look…"

Dean's voice trailed off as he finally gathered the courage to check Sam over. He reached down and pushed Sam's tattered shirt up out of the way, gasping at what he saw.

Vast, yawning chasms of lacerated flesh extended across Sam's abdomen, ending just above his right hip. An uninterrupted stream of blood steadily leeched from them, the ones closest to Sam's pants already saturating the waistband of his jeans.

Along Sam's left flank were a series of deep puncture wounds in a semi-circular pattern that extended around to the corresponding area on his back. Blood trickled silently from each puncture and pooled on the ground beneath the young hunter.

Dean removed the large hunting knife from his pocket and hacked at the gaping hole in the left pant leg of Sam's jeans. Beneath it, he had found that a large fragment of skin and muscle had been torn from Sam's left thigh and blood spurted from the area in a pulsating fountain of vivid carmine red.

"Fuck, Bobby," Dean screamed as he indicated the areas along Sam's left flank and on his left thigh. "Those are bites! We destroyed the altar and the beer. How can Sekhmet still be alive?"

Sam's eyes remained closed as he tried to stir, his head rolling slowly from side to side. He was breathing heavily and intermittently moaned deeply.

"I don't know, Dean," Bobby admitted. "But that's arterial blood that's gushing from his leg. If we don't slow it down or stop it soon, he's gonna bleed to death in front of us."

Bobby pulled the bandana he usually carried from his back pocket and, working quickly, wrapped it snugly around Sam's upper thigh, above the gaping wound. Dean handed him a short, stout stick that he knotted into the bandana and Bobby gently turned the stick until the bandana had tightened sufficiently around Sam's leg to significantly staunch the flow of blood.

Bobby had been sure not to tighten the tourniquet too much. Sure, they wanted to save Sam's life, but they didn't want him losing his leg from lack of blood flow, either. Next, Dean yanked the belt from his jeans and firmly strapped it over the stick and around Sam's leg to prevent the tourniquet from loosening prematurely.

"Sam…Sammy," Dean called. "Sammy, can you hear me? We've got to get you out of here. You're going to have to help us as much as you can."

Sam continued to moan softly but didn't respond. Dean noted that his skin was pale and clammy and knew it was a serious sign that Sam's body was going into shock.

"Bobby, give me a hand. Help me sit him up. We can't waste any more time getting outta here. I don't want to give that bitch a chance to come back for seconds."

The two men hoisted Sam into a sitting position and then assisted him to stand. His head hung loosely forward and bobbed slightly with Dean and Bobby's coordinated strides down the path.

The narrowness of the path and the loose, shifting soil made for slow, treacherous going. By the time the trio had made their way to the bottom of the knoll, Bobby and Dean were both sweating heavily from exertion. Sam had been little help in getting down the hill from the man-made habitat. Dean had called to him frequently and the best response he had gotten was a barely audible, unintelligible grunt.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was only a few hundred feet from the base of the hill when Dean and Bobby felt all of the oppressive weight of Sam's body as it suddenly went completely slack and flaccid. Dean called to him but got no further response.

Dean and Bobby stopped their forward advances and laid Sam gently on the ground. Dean patted lightly at Sam's pale face and kept calling out to him. The panic continued to rise in Dean as Sam remained unresponsive.

As they watched, Sam took a deep, shuddering breath. Dean reached down and touched the tips of his fingers to the angle of Sam's jaw, searching in vain for the bounding pulse that should have been evident from his carotid artery and watched as Sam's chest failed to rise and fall again.

"No! Nooooooooooo…you can't have him, you bitch!! It was me you were after. Me!! You didn't need to hurt him! It's me you want! Oh, God, Sammy, don't leave me! You promised you'd never leave me!"

Dean had begun doing chest compressions when Bobby intervened and pulled him from his brother's body. "Dean, stop it! Dean, that's not going to bring him back. Sam's lost too much blood! He's gone, Dean. I'm sorry…but Sam's gone."

* * *

**To be continued…**


	25. The Lazarus Phenomenon

**Disclaimer: **Please see Chapter 1.

**A/N: **I'd like to thank everyone that has been reading and reviewing to this point. I'm not certain why, but for some reason I'm suddenly not getting my story alerts and review alerts in my email box. I'm going to do my best to contact each of you individually and thank you, but should I miss someone…that is why.

**A personal aside to RogueBludger: **Very good! You obviously must be a fan of Monty Python! The line you mentioned in Chapter 4, "…just a flesh wound," was my way of tipping my hat at one of my all-time fav movies, "Monty Python and the Holy Grail". Of course, I also made that Sam's choice of quality entertainment!

**From the previous chapter:**

_It was only a few hundred feet from the base of the hill when Dean and Bobby felt all of the oppressive weight of Sam's body as it suddenly went completely slack and flaccid. Dean called to him but got no further response._

_Dean and Bobby stopped their forward advances and laid Sam gently on the ground. Dean patted lightly at Sam's pale face and kept calling out to him. The panic continued to rise in Dean as Sam remained unresponsive._

_As they watched, Sam took a deep, shuddering breath. Dean reached down and touched the tips of his fingers to the angle of Sam's jaw, searching in vain for the bounding pulse that should have been evident from his carotid artery and watched as Sam's chest failed to rise and fall again._

"_No! Nooooooooooo…you can't have him, you bitch!! It was me you were after. Me!! You didn't need to hurt him! It's me you want! Oh, God, Sammy, don't leave me! You promised you'd never leave me!"_

_Dean had begun doing chest compressions when Bobby intervened and pulled him from his brother's body. "Dean, stop it! Dean, that's not going to bring him back. Sam's lost too much blood! He's gone, Dean. I'm sorry…but Sam's gone."_

* * *

**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

**Chapter 25: The Lazarus Phenomenon**

Dean sat back on his haunches and buried his face in his hands, too overwrought and devastated for tears to come. A myriad of thoughts twisted and tumbled mercilessly in his head. His emotions churned wildly, rolling and cascading over one another until they coalesced into a kaleidoscopic miasma of anger, guilt, loneliness and grief.

_God damn you, Sammy!...You said you wouldn't leave!…How could you do this to me?…How could you leave me here alone?...How am I supposed to do this by myself?...Why didn't I listen to you?...How could I drop my guard when you told me something wasn't right?...Oh God, Sammy…It's all my fault…Dad would have never forgiven me for this…I screwed up, Sammy, and I killed you!_

Dean looked up at Bobby with haunted eyes. "I killed him, Bobby. I let my guard down and I killed him."

"Dean," Bobby began softly, "I don't ever want to hear you say that again…ever. You didn't kill him. I didn't kill him. It just happened. Hunting is a dangerous gig…and Sam knew that. Sometimes evil wins and we lose people we love. It sucks…big time…but it just…_happens_. It's no one's fault but those evil sons of bitches we hunt."

Dean peered at Bobby with a cold, hardened look in his eyes and he shivered subconsciously at the malevolence of Dean's expression. "That bitch may have won this battle," Dean hissed through clenched teeth, "But I'm sure as shit gonna win the war. If I have to spend the rest of my life hunting her down, I'm gonna make Sekhmet _pay_ for what she did to Sammy."

Suddenly, Sam's entire body jolted as he sucked in several large, rasping gulps of air. Both Dean and Bobby stared at Sam in shared amazement. Neither was certain they were actually seeing what they thought they had seen.

"Sam?" Dean sputtered through a relieved laugh. "What the hell? How did…what happ-…oh, man…"

Several minutes had elapsed before Sam's breathing had finally settled into a steady in-out, in-out rhythm. Sam was weakly attempting to move his arms and legs when Bobby had first realized that his wounds appeared to heal somewhat.

"Not that I'm complaining…but Sammy's done a freakin' Lazarus! What in God's name happened, Bobby?" Dean questioned in awe.

"I…have…_no_…idea," Bobby breathed in genuine astonishment.

Dean turned and spoke soothingly and encouragingly to his younger brother. "Sam…Sam…come on…open your eyes, dude. Let me know you're in there. Open your eyes and talk to me."

Sam's eyes fluttered repeatedly. Incoherent groans tumbled from his blood-caked lips, his arms lashing out weakly as his addled brain attempted to make sense of things.

Bobby had continued to monitor Sam's injuries but had noticed that the improvements had reached a plateau and then ceased to continue. Although a great deal of healing had occurred, Sam's injuries were still significant, by even an experienced hunter's standpoint.

"That's right, Sammy, open those eyes," Dean continued to urge. "Come on, keep 'em open. You can do it."

Sam groaned as his eyes opened to an unfocused world. Within a few minutes he was able to lock onto Dean's face as it swam into view but seemed completely incapable of forming words, no matter how hard he tried.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

By the time Bobby had driven the fifty or so miles back to Holstein, Sam had become somewhat more alert. But a sense of profound weakness and exhaustion left Sam feeling unconcerned about the world around him. His clothing was covered in blood and his injuries had not improved any further. He felt as though his consciousness was floating somewhere slightly removed from what was going on and he spent the entire drive in silence.

Normally, no one but Dean drove the Impala, but Sam had been so weak that he had needed Dean in the backseat during the ride back to the farmhouse and Dean had willingly surrendered the keys to Bobby. His concern for Sam was so consuming that Dean had even forgone his usual warnings about the care of his car.

The far away look in Sam's eyes and that fact that he had yet to acknowledge either he or Bobby had really unnerved Dean. They still couldn't explain what was going on and Sam's unresponsiveness left them with even more questions for which they had no answers.

Bobby slowed the car to a stop in front of the now familiar Hoover farmhouse and rushed to help Dean lift his brother from the rear seat.

Bobby and Dean flanked Sam like bookends, each grasping one of Sam's lanky arms across their shoulders as they walked him slowly up the path to the house. Even assisted as much as he was, Sam walked hunched over in a compounded haze of pain and physical exhaustion.

Gordy and Brenda met the trio on the porch. "Judas H. Priest," Gordy exclaimed, "What the hell happened?"

"Sam ended up being Sekhmet's chew-toy, that's what happened," Dean blurted. "I'll explain later. Right now, we've got to get Humpty-Dumpty, here, put back to together again."

The trip up the steps to their bedroom had been excruciatingly slow. Almost immediately after being placed on the bed, Sam's eyes slipped shut. A momentary crush of fear washed over Dean as he remembered witnessing his brother dying before him and felt again the hollow, unrelenting void of helplessness. Dean instinctually sought the reassurance of Sam's touch, his apprehension ebbing slowly as Sam's pulse continued to thump with measured regularity.

Bobby and Dean spent more than an hour flushing, stitching and dressing Sam's wounds, many of them now edged in bruising of vivid indigo. Sam had remained mercifully unaware of their ministrations as they tended his injuries.

The thought of removing the tourniquet that had been placed around Sam's left thigh had worried Bobby greatly. If there was a recurrence of the arterial bleeding, it was quite possible that Sam could bleed out within minutes, possibly before they could even get the tourniquet reapplied.

The spontaneous healing that had occurred with Sam's wounds had significantly reduced the depth of Sam's thigh wound and Bobby held his breath as he slowly loosened the ligature. Renewed bleeding sprung from the smaller veins and capillaries but no arterial bleeding was evident and Bobby relaxed with a relieved sigh.

Despite the inexplicable reduction in the size of the wound, there had been too significant a loss of tissue to be able to safely pull the wound together with sutures. Had they tried, even a small amount of swelling or slight movement would have been enough to tear the sutures from the wound and possibly renew the arterial hemorrhaging.

Instead, the hunter firmly packed the deep crater with moistened gauze that they held in place with multiple wraps from a roll of Kling gauze. Having done what they could do, Dean and Bobby retreated to a huddled review of the day's events, the serious injuries and unanswered questions a maddening and mocking condemnation that Sekhmet had managed to stay at least one step ahead of them.

_Seems to me, little brother…you and me have a thing or two to talk about when you wake up._

_

* * *

**To be continued…** _

By the way...did you all _really_ think I'd kill off our Sammy? I couldn't bring myself to do it if I wanted to.

**About the Chapter title:**

The Lazarus Phenomenon is a documented medical occurance where there is an unexpected return of spontaneous circulation (ROSC) after resuscitation attempts are withdrawn. There have been more than 25 cases reported in medical literature. Believed to be one of the most under-reported events in medicine, mostly due to religious and legal ramifications, most researchers believe it occurs far more frequently than most people suspect.

The term was coined by a physician and named after Lazarus, a man, according to the Christian Bible, who was raised by Jesus four days after his death. No single cause has been identified for the phenomenon and survivors have suffered from a variety of "deaths" ranging from heart attacks and strokes to trauma and severe hemorrhaging.

I have personally witnessed ROSC phenomena and, although not as dramatic as I've portrayed it here…it certainly leaves quite an impression.


	26. Welcome to My Nightmare

**Disclaimer: **Refer to Chapter 1.

**A/N: **Story and review alerts seem to still be down at this point, so I want to extend my sincere appreciation to those of you that have been so faithful to this story that you've gone digging around the site to see if there have been any recent updates instead of waiting for the alerts. Also…as always…this story is completely UN-beta'd so any mistakes you find are all mine. Now…on with the show!

**From the previous chapter:**

_The spontaneous healing that had occurred with Sam's wounds had significantly reduced the depth of Sam's thigh wound and Bobby held his breath as he slowly loosened the ligature. Renewed bleeding sprung from the smaller veins and capillaries but no arterial bleeding was evident and Bobby relaxed with a relieved sigh._

_Despite the inexplicable reduction in the size of the wound, there had been too significant a loss of tissue to be able to safely pull the wound together with sutures. Had they tried, even a small amount of swelling or slight movement would have been enough to tear the sutures from the wound and possibly renew the arterial hemorrhaging._

_Instead, the hunter firmly packed the deep crater with moistened gauze that they held in place with multiple wraps from a roll of Kling gauze. Having done what they could do, Dean and Bobby retreated to a huddled review of the day's events, the serious injuries and unanswered questions a maddening and mocking condemnation that Sekhmet had managed to stay at least one step ahead of them._

_**Seems to me, little brother…you and me have a thing or two to talk about when you wake up**._

* * *

**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

**Chapter 26: Welcome to My Nightmare**

It had been almost an hour since Sam had awoken, groaning pitifully, and still he hadn't spoken. Dean had hovered nervously, each passing minute of silence only adding to his certainty that something significant was wrong with Sam.

"Can we talk?" Dean thought this must have been the hundredth time he'd asked Sam that question since he'd awakened. In fact, he'd asked it so much, he was beginning to feel as though he was channeling Joan Rivers.

"Look," Dean said, "I understood the silence yesterday after you got hurt. But now…you're really starting to freak me out. Usually I can't get you to shut the hell up…and now…well…now, you're starting to scare me. This isn't like you, Sammy. I know it must be hard…but I need to know what happened out there. I mean…you were dead, Sammy. Coming back from the dead isn't normal."

"And what part of our lives is, Dean? I can't even remember what 'normal' is any more!"

The anger in Sam's voice had caught Dean off guard and he sat silently studying the frayed hole in the knee of his jeans.

Minutes passed in a palpably tense silence before either hunter spoke again. This time Sam's voice was softly apologetic. "I'm sorry, Dean. I didn't mean to yell at you. It's just that, ever since yesterday, I've been trying to figure it out for myself. How was I supposed to explain everything to anyone else when I wasn't even sure that _I _understood it?"

Dean gazed guiltily at Sam. "I shouldn't have pushed you like that. I never thought…It's just that this whole damned thing hasn't made sense from the beginning. And yesterday…Sekhmet attacking you…and seeing you…It was just too much. Why didn't destroying Sekhmet's altar spay the bitch?"

Bobby appeared at the doorway and Sam motioned him in.

"I'm glad you're here, Bobby. I've been thinking about…you know, everything…and I think I've finally worked some of it out in my head."

"Glad you have, kiddo, 'cause I've been turning it all over in my head, too, and I'm not any closer now to piecing it together than I was yesterday," Bobby confessed. "The only thing I know is that I watched you die out there and then…"

Sam glanced away, took a deep breath and sighed. He knew trying to explain this wasn't going to be easy. "That wasn't me that died out there in that wildlife park…it was Dean."

Confused glances shot back and forth rapidly between Bobby and Dean, but neither one said anything. Dean was perched on the edge of Sam's bed and he leaned forward and placed his hand on Sam's forehead, thinking he must be delirious from fever.

Sam batted his hand away in irritation. "Knock it off, jerk. I don't have a fever. Remember the first vision I had…the one in the kitchen? And remember how it was especially vivid? How I physically felt what went on in the vision? It took me a while to figure this out, but I wasn't really attacked by Sekhmet."

Dean gestured wildly at Sam's multitude of injuries and angrily proclaimed, "You could have fooled me! Where the hell do you think those came from?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you. When I was attacked, did either of you see Sekhmet, in any of her forms…lion or otherwise?"

"No," Dean admitted.

"Me, neither," Bobby confessed.

"That's because it didn't happen. Sekhmet wasn't there." Sam was peering wide-eyed at his companions. "I had started down the path ahead of you when I felt a headache coming on. It struck so hard and so fast I didn't have time to let you know what was going on. My so-called 'return from the dead' happened when I was released from the vision."

"Ok, fine," Dean acquiesced. "Let's say I believe that Sekhmet didn't attack you…that it was all just another vision. Why are your visions suddenly causing you physical injuries? Each one leaves you worse off than the last one. Any more and…"

"Because these aren't my normal visions, that's why," Sam cut in. Sam almost had to laugh at how strange their lives had become that he would actual put "normal" and "vision" in the same sentence. "I couldn't figure it out before, but that first vision just felt 'different'. I can't really describe it, but I just sensed that it didn't emanate from the same source, or whatever, as usual. It wasn't until I had this second vision and I realized it felt just as 'different' that I made the connections. I think these visions are being supplied courtesy of Ptah."

Sam glanced from Bobby to Dean. Neither hunter moved and Dean was giving Sam an "I-think-you've-lost-more-blood-than-we-originally-thought" look, so Sam continued on.

"Try to follow this…Sekhmet killed Ptah. He sorta gets a posthumous revenge because she's buried alive with him and her spirit's been held captive by him all these years. Then suddenly, her spirit is released and now Ptah's pissed. The only way for him to reclaim his revenge is to reach out from the grave with information that might help to rein her in again. Only problem is…"

"Only problem is…" Dean broke in, "…is that he's a god and doing the 'Psychic Friends Network' thing with you pushes everything into overdrive."

"Right," Sam agreed. "So not only do I _see_ what goes on in my visions, I end up with the side-effect of _feeling _what's going on. The release from the vision can clear up some of the physical effects, but it can't clear all of them up."

"Alright," Bobby began, "but since we destroyed Sekhmet's altar and beer jars, that should have ended it. Why would Ptah be showing you a vision of Dean being attacked by the lion form of Sekhmet?"

Sam let out a small chuckle. "I think that was Ptah's less than subtle way of telling me that my hunch at the lion's den was right. We destroyed the altar and the jars, but not Sekhmet. She's a spirit, yes, but like Ptah, she's also a god…well, in her case, a goddess. But, anyway, that imbues her with hocus-pocus 'regular' spirits don't have. Just destroying her stuff isn't gonna do her in…we have to destroy _her_."

"Kinda hard, don't you think," Bobby challenged, "…since she's been able to flick back and forth between human, spirit and lion forms?"

"Yeah, that's the sticky part I haven't figured out yet," Sam acknowledged.

"What," Dean argued contemptuously, "Ptah's more than happy to beat the shit out of you all in the name of being 'helpful', but can't see it in his mummified heart to tell you how to exterminate 'Miss Hell Cat'?"

Sam shrugged his shoulders, drawing in a sudden breath through his clenched teeth when pain shot along his left side. He reached over, cradling his left flank with his right hand and scrooched around in bed until he could once again regain a comfortable position.

Dean left Sam's bedside and rummaged around in the bathroom. When he returned to his younger brother, he was holding out the two remaining Percocet and a small glass of water.

Sam had briefly considered allowing himself to be seduced by the respite from pain those two small, white tablets would afford him. At the moment he was almost ready to give in, he noticed something that brought him up short and completely changed his mind.

As Dean stood with the pills perched on his outstretched left palm and the glass of water gripped in his right hand, Sam noted Dean's hands were trembling.

Dean had felt the now familiar trembling returning as they had desperately tried to get Sam out of the wildlife sanctuary. Initially, Dean had thought the adrenalin rush from his nervousness over Sam's condition was getting the best of him. But when they had gotten Sam back to the Hoover's and the tremors hadn't abated, Dean knew things had just gone from 'uh-oh' to 'oh, shit'.

In the several hours since they'd gotten back to the farmhouse and gotten Sam patched up, Dean had ingested more cups of Bobby's tea than he would have liked to have remembered. Still, the tremors had not improved. With his injuries plaguing him, Sam certainly wasn't going to be in any shape to go after Sekhmet again and now his symptoms were returning despite Bobby's tea. _This couldn't have come again at a worse time_, Dean mused.

The longer Sam stared at Dean's hands, the more self-conscious Dean had become about it until he was shaking so badly that he was sloshing small amounts of water out of the glass he'd poured for Sam. In desperation, he slammed the glass and the pills down on the small bedside table.

"Fine," Dean said defensively, "If you want to be a jerk and not take 'em, that's alright by me."

"How long Dean?" Sam's facial expression was painted with a mixture of fear, hurt, sympathy and anger. "You weren't going to tell us about this, were you? You were going to try to hide it again. How long have the symptoms been back?"

"Look, Sam," Dean protested, "With you being hurt and everything else that was going on I just didn't think it was…"

"That's right," Sam yelled, "…you didn't think! How long Dean?"

"I noticed it after you got hurt," Dean whispered softly. "I've been drinking Bobby's tea, but it doesn't seem to be helping this time."

"Grab some clean clothes for me. We're going back to Los Barba," Sam commanded.

"Whoa, there, cowboy," Bobby cautioned. "You're in no shape to go after Sekhmet."

"Bobby's right," Dean affirmed.

"And neither is Dean. Hell, he hasn't been in any shape to hunt on _half_ the gigs we've done, but he hunts anyway…and so will I," Sam snapped. "In my vision she goes after Dean at the park. That's where we'll find her…and where I'm gonna end this once and for all."

Sam swung his legs off the bed and sat there hunched over, breathing hard and bracing his hands on the edge of the mattress. Pain rippled through just about every inch of his body, sweat beaded at his hairline and across his upper lip, and his left leg throbbed mercilessly.

Dean had reached for him as he made an attempt to rise to his feet, but Sam only batted him away. Limping heavily on his left leg, he crossed the room to the bureau and pulled out a clean shirt and jeans and then painfully returned to sit on the edge of the bed.

Sam gingerly leaned forward, guiding the leg of his jeans onto his right foot and pulled up slightly. Things didn't go so smoothly with his injured left leg and he was left panting in pain as he struggled with it.

"So," Dean chimed in smugly, "is Superman ready to let someone give him some help?"

Sam sat upright, breathing heavily, his expression one of resigned determination. "Only if Superman's irritating older brother can manage to keep his cakehole shut while he's doing it, 'cause I'm hunting whether he likes it, or not."

* * *

**To be continued…**

**About the chapter title: **"Welcome to My Nightmare" was the title track to the popular 1975 Alice Cooper concept album of the same name.


	27. Veteran of the Psychic Wars

**Disclaimer: **Refer to Chapter 1

**A/N:** I'd like to apologize for not getting a chapter up for four days. I know many of you are accustomed to having at least one new chapter to read each day. I haven't had a migraine in a few years…up until this past Sunday. Unfortunately, my head decided it was going to make up for lost time and I had a doozy. In addition to the lovely pain, I lost the left half of my vision for 2 days and they were actually concerned I'd stroked. Technically, I wasn't supposed to be on the computer at all, but I couldn't go without checking up on the stories I've been following, so I made them the compromise that I wouldn't stay on long enough to post any new chapters. But, now I'm back…vision at about 80 percent...and eager to pick up where we left off…

**From the previous chapter:**

_Sam gingerly leaned forward, guiding the leg of his jeans onto his right foot and pulled up slightly. Things didn't go so smoothly with his injured left leg and he was left panting in pain as he struggled with it._

"_So," Dean chimed in smugly, "is Superman ready to let someone give him some help?"_

_Sam sat upright, breathing heavily, his expression one of resigned determination. "Only if Superman's irritating older brother can manage to keep his cakehole shut while he's doing it, 'cause I'm hunting whether he likes it, or not."_

**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

**Chapter 27: Veteran of the Psychic Wars**

The drive back to Los Barba had been a silent one. Despite the tremors in his hands Dean drove, with Sam riding shotgun and Bobby fretting away in the back seat. He'd brought along some of his reference books and was feverishly pouring over them. Unfortunately, none of them seemed to hold anything of value for them.

As they pulled into the preserve's parking lot, the long drive had not improved Bobby's mood. "Damned kids," he muttered to himself. "Both of 'em going off half dead and without any plan as to what they're gonna do…'cept get themselves killed, of course."

Dean killed the engine and glanced in the rearview mirror at Bobby. "It's now or never, Bobby. We do nothing and Sekhmet's brew does me in and Ptah's visions kill Sammy, or we try annihilating this wench first."

Sam had pushed the passenger side door open and, twisting in the seat, had worked his drive-stiffened left leg out of the car. Despite the pull it exerted on his abdominal wounds and the bite to his left flank, Sam reached up, grabbing the upper edge of the doorframe with his left hand and pushing off the backrest of the seat with his right hand.

By the time Sam had reached his full height, Bobby had already exited the rear passenger door. Steadying himself by leaning both forearms on the Impala's rooftop, Sam waited until he was certain his left leg wouldn't object to holding his weight.

"Dean's right," Sam proffered. "I don't know how many more of those high-octane visions I can handle and Dean's symptoms are returning. We have to make our move now."

"I wouldn't have a problem with 'making our move now' if we actually had a 'move' to make," Bobby grumbled as the threesome moved toward the entrance to the wildlife preserve's visitor's center. "I _know_ John taught you boys to have a plan before you charge in. Otherwise, you're on nothing more than a suicide mission."

Dean reached forward and yanked the door to the visitor's center open as though his rancor for Sekhmet could be avenged by ripping the door from its framework. "He also taught us," Dean replied with some animosity, "…how to fly by the seat of our pants when all else fails."

As they crossed the threshold of the park's center, Phil, the preserve's owner, looked up from the magazine he'd been absently scanning as he sat perched on a stool next to the cash register. At the sight of the three hunters, he stood nervously, knocking the stool over in the process.

Staring at Sam, his mouth dangling slackly in shock, Phil paled noticeably. "A-a-agent Stills! I didn't expect to see you back…I mean…when Agent Crosby and Agent Nash dragged you outta here yesterday…that cat had done a number on you!"

Sam had been so out of it when they'd left the preserve after the presumed lion attack that he had no idea what Phil saw and didn't see and wasn't sure just how to answer him. Dean jumped in with an impatient, "Yeah, well, the Exotic Animals Division doesn't get sick days."

After interrogating Phil to assure his other cats were still confined in the veterinary facility, the battered trio set off to once again face down Sekhmet. As Phil unlocked the access gate to allow them entry into the sprawling lion sanctuary, he glanced once again at Sam's hobbling gait. "Your jobs must make it a bitch gettin' health insurance."

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Sam had found the flat, open terrain of the prairie portion of the habitat difficult enough due to the throbbing of his left thigh. But now that they had reached the more uneven nature of the wooded parcel, the hike was proving to be arduous. Several times he'd stumbled over tree roots or vines that jutted across the path and caused needle-like swells of pain to billow from his left thigh.

Despite the pain, the hunter's alertness had been heightened after entering the forested area. Every small movement or noise warranted closer inspection and vigilance in order to prevent the ambush from Sekhmet that Sam's vision had foretold.

It was one such noise that caused Sam to turn with a start. The sudden motion, the loose footing and the stiffness in his left leg synchronized to throw Sam slightly off balance. The additional and unexpected weight on his already over-taxed and mauled left leg caused it to give way beneath him and he crashed to the forest floor in a heap.

The rocky footpath was littered with coarse, jagged, fist-sized rocks that raked mercilessly across the bandaged wound on Sam's left thigh and harrowed a cleft into the material of his jeans.

Tears of pain sprung to Sam's eyes and he clamped them tightly shut as he fought to retain his composure. The rampaging anguish that flowed unbounded from the antagonized wound threatened to eclipse Sam's consciousness, sending him briefly into a world of swirling murkiness.

Sam lay for several minutes gently cradling his protesting leg while Dean hovered nearby, not quite sure what assistance Sam might need, but not wanting to be too far away. Eventually, the extreme pain subsided to the distinctive numbness of nerve endings that had been jangled beyond their capacity to perform and Sam pushed himself into a sitting position.

"Oh, man," Sam whined as he caught sight of his pants. "That's two pairs of jeans bitched up in two days."

"It's just a pair of jeans. Quit being such a girl, Sammy. Next you'll be worried about breakin' a nail," Dean snorted. "You, ok…or should we turn back?"

Dean had extended his hand and Sam pulled himself upright, his right leg bearing his complete weight. Uncertain if his left leg would hold up after this latest indignation, Sam curled his left arm around his brother's shoulder allowing Dean to assist him. After several hesitant steps, Sam was confident that he could continue again on his own and he slid his arm from around Dean's neck.

He was several yards ahead of Dean and Bobby when Sam turned to look back. "You guys coming? 'Cause, come Hell or high water, I'm finishing what we've started. I'm not about to turn back now."

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The trio had hiked on in silence for some time when Dean had called out for a break. He'd made the excuse that he thought Sam might need it seeing that he was stumping on a torn up leg. In actuality, Dean was the one needing the break.

For either boy, a hike of this caliber would normally have been nothing more than a quiet Sunday walk in the park. But, of course, things weren't normal. Dean had noted that the tremors of this morning, coupled with the strenuous hike, had caused his muscles to quiver constantly as though he was made of Jell-O.

Although he felt guilty blaming Sam for being the one needing the rest stop, Dean knew if he confessed that he was getting worse, that Sam would badger him non-stop. Dean's nerves were already on edge and having Sam at him constantly, and throwing him concerned looks even more often, would just plain drive him over the edge.

Dean flopped down onto the trunk of a large fir tree that had been felled by a fierce summer storm that had blown through several months before. His hands trembled so noticeably that he sat on them in an attempt to hide the quaking from his companions. He could feel that the tremors had now grown to include his thigh and calf muscles, as well. He worried that if they had to hike much further that he would be unable to conceal the continued deterioration of his physical condition.

With a concerted effort to control the tremors of his right hand, Dean reached down and firmly grasped the canteen that hung next to his right hip. He'd had the forethought to bring the supply of Bobby's tea and had been sipping at it at intervals throughout the hike. Although it hadn't seemed to have had any effect, in desperation Dean guzzled the remaining tea. Silently, he prayed that the tea would be enough to prevent the symptoms from worsening any further before they were able to have their showdown with Sekhmet.

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Sam would never have asked for the break himself. Partly because he felt an urgency to finish the hunt before Dean worsened, and partly because he was apprehensive that Dean would see the request as Sam's veiled admission that he was unfit to continue. And if that's what Dean thought, Sam knew they'd end up wasting valuable time arguing about it instead of getting on with the hunt.

It didn't mean, of course, that he couldn't appreciate the break for what it was…an opportunity to rest his fatigued body. The hobbling gait caused by the initial injury to his left thigh had thrown off Sam's center of balance and fabricated aches and pains in other areas of his body as it tried to compensate.

In addition, Sam had become cognizant that, since he had fallen, there was an ever widening area of fresh bleeding breaking through the bandage on his left thigh. It had become significant enough that the frayed edges of the gash in his jeans had become a blood-soaked neon sign advertising the renewed surge of bleeding. He knew that unless he was prepared to get into a head-to-head argument with Dean, he would need to do something to camouflage it.

He peeled off his dark navy hoodie and, rising from his perch on a large outcropping of rock, he flipped it behind him and casually tied the arms around his waist. The body of the jacket hung loosely around his upper legs, effectively enshrouding the bloodstained area.

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When Sam had risen to wrap his hoodie around his waist, Dean pushed himself to a standing position. Uncertain whether his weakening and shaky muscles would hold, Dean leaned into a nearby tree for support trying to adopt a "yeah-I'm-cool" posture until he was sure he could push away without Sam and Bobby being alerted to his worsening symptoms.

The hunters once again began their trek with a determined Bobby asserting that he should take point. Being that Dean had so far been able to cover the deterioration of his balance and coordination so well, they had agreed that the badly limping Sam should take up the middle position, with Dean bringing up the rear, always on the look out for an ambush from behind.

It wasn't long before they came to a portion of the trail that had little visibility to their left and a sharp drop off to their right. Dean's well-honed hunters' instincts had gone into overdrive once they'd entered the confining space of the narrow pass. He realized this was an unsurpassed area for an ambush, but the swiftness and ferocity of Sekhmet's manifestation had still taken him by surprise. A sudden gust of wind and dramatic decline in temperature were the only split-second announcements that Sekhmet had given the trio before she materialized.

Dean raised his rock salt loaded shotgun and spun to meet Sekhmet head on, his debilitated muscles refusing to cooperate. As he unwillingly surrendered his balance, Dean squeezed off a round of rock salt that sprayed wildly, completely missing Sekhmet's ethereal form as she charged in with inhuman brutality.

The unexpected fall found Sekhmet's form rushing harmlessly past Dean, crashing, instead, into Sam with a force the trio had never seen before from a nebulous spirit. Dean and Bobby could only watch in horror as the force of the collision catapulted Sam over the edge of the sheer drop.

"Sam!"

**To be continued…**

**About the chapter title: **"Veteran on the Psychic Wars" is a 1981 song from the Blue Oyster Cult album, "Fire of Unknown Origin". It's a song about a hero-type that endures all sorts of trials in his fight to maintain the balance between good and evil/order and chaos. I just thought it described our boys pretty well.


	28. Dazed and Confused

**Disclaimer: **Best stated at the head of Chapter 1.

**From the previous chapter:**

_Dean raised his rock salt loaded shotgun and spun to meet Sekhmet head on, his debilitated muscles refusing to cooperate. As he unwillingly surrendered his balance, Dean squeezed off a round of rock salt that sprayed wildly, completely missing Sekhmet's ethereal form as she charged in with inhuman brutality._

_The unexpected fall found Sekhmet's form rushing harmlessly past Dean, crashing, instead, into Sam with a force the trio had never seen before from a nebulous spirit. Dean and Bobby could only watch in horror as the force of the collision catapulted Sam over the edge of the sheer drop._

"_Sam!"_

* * *

**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

****

****

**Chapter 28: Dazed and Confused**

The force of Sekhmet's attack launched Sam into an agonizing slide down the steep slope. The loose, rocky side of the incline had provided little habitat for substantial brush growth and Sam slid helplessly as he scrabbled desperately for any hand hold he could find to stop his uncontrolled descent.

Almost halfway down, Sam had managed to grab onto a single small shrub. The momentum of his slide and the force of his weight violently ripped the shallow-rooted plant from its tenuous hold, causing Sam to crash and tumble the remaining distance to the bottom of the slope like some child's discarded rag doll, arms and legs whipping in uncontrolled violence.

Sam's body slammed to rest on his side at the escarpment's bottom. His first awareness was of a white hot pain emanating from his left lower ribcage. His breaths came in panting gasps as an intense wave of nausea roiled up from his gut. He retched uncontrollably, the violent movement sending excruciating pain searing through his back, ribs, chest and abdomen.

It was several minutes before Sam stopped retching and the pain subsided enough for him to finally take stock of his predicament. He had a vague recollection of taking a savage blow to his left side on a large rock during his plummet down the hill. Judging from the pain he was experiencing, he figured he could add at least one fractured left rib to his list of previous injuries. In addition, Sam's arms and hands were littered with cuts and abrasions, dirt and bits of rock having been ground into the wounds during his turbulent plunge from the ridge top.

Sam slowly rolled onto his back, wincing as pain knifed through his left side, and then lay still trying to catch his breath and clear his head. He gazed back up the sharp incline trying to imagine just how he was going to get himself back up the sheer side when he detected the faint shouts of Bobby and Dean. Strangely, the distant voices didn't seem to be coming from above him as he thought they should. Instead, the shouts seemed to be coming from different directions each time he'd heard them, a fact that his dazed mind was having trouble rationalizing.

It took several minutes for Sam to figure out that Dean and Bobby were making their way down to him by some alternate route and their shouts were bouncing back and forth among the steep ridges, giving the illusion that the voices were coming from differing directions.

Sam had tried a few times to shout back but had found that the pain in his left side prevented him from breathing deeply enough to yell out with enough force to be heard. Alternatively, he decided to roll back onto his side and try pushing himself up onto his elbow. From there, he figured he could push into a sitting position, finally rising and striking off to meet up with Bobby and Dean.

He'd made it as far as pushing up to his elbow, but his left side felt as though it was on fire and the world around Sam pitched and distorted crazily until he flopped onto his back, breaths coming in harsh, irregular gasps, his arms splayed out wide. Sam closed his eyes against the pain and dizziness, a sense of desperation overtaking him as he wondered just how they were ever going to get this nightmare hunt completed if neither he nor Dean was fit to be up walking around, never mind put up much of a fight.

8888888888888888888888888888888888

"Dean! Over here!" Bobby hollered. "I found him! Sam's over here."

Bobby was already kneeling at Sam's side by the time Dean had arrived. Sam's eyes were still closed against the shifting and yawing landscape of his vertigo and his breathing was heavy. The whirling sensation only served to increase Sam's nausea and he found himself forcibly pushing back the bile that rose in his throat.

"Sammy…can you hear me?" Dean's voice was laced with worry and dread.

"I...think I... busted a rib," Sam hitched out through stilted breaths as he opened his eyes and took in the anxious looks of his companions. "I'll...be fine...but I think...I'm gonna need...some help getting up."

Dean knew Sam had once again endured more pain and injury from yet another attack that had been meant for him and the guilt that he felt over it was quickly fanning itself into a wildfire of rage aimed squarely at Sekhmet. But not all of the anger and rage that burned within Dean was meant for Sekhmet. A portion of that rage was turned inward, onto himself. He had been unable to protect Sam from the destructive effects of Ptah's visions and now he'd almost gotten his baby brother killed because he hadn't been able to respond quickly enough to Sekhmet's threating presence.

The fury flowed uncontrollably in Dean until his manic thoughts tumbled ferociously into a pyroclastic explosion of words. "God damn it, Sammy," Dean declared angrily. "This whole fucked up hunt is my fault. If I'd paid attention in the beginning, I would have known…I would have seen her for who she was. I should have known she was coming...should have been better prepared. Now you're beat to hell...even more than before. Neither one of us can take much more of this. We've got to ice that bitch…neutralize her…exterminate her…send her dried up old ass back to Hell or wherever…but we've got to end this… NOW!"

Sam looked at Dean with a bewildered look. "What did you say?"

"I said we need to end this," Dean repeated. "Are you sure it's just your ribs? You didn't hit your head, did you?"

Sam had struggled to raise himself onto his elbows when Bobby reached out and fisted Sam's left hand in his and gently placed the palm of his right hand on Sam's back, helping him to sit upright. Sam responded with a distracted "Yeah", ignoring Dean's questions as his mind raced over Dean's previous statements and his body fought to hold his pain at bay. _The solution can't be that simple, can it?_

Dean frowned deeply. "Yeah, what?"

Sam seemed a million miles away, lost in his own world, disconnected and remote. It took him a moment to realize that Dean had said something to him. He'd been so lost in his own thoughts that he hadn't really heard just what it was Dean had said and responded with a simple, "Huh?"

Dean became even more disconcerted when he saw the lost, distant expression on Sam's face. The fact that Sam hadn't responded immediately, and then only with an absent, half-hearted question of his own, wasn't helping the disquieted feeling creeping over Dean. He knew that head injuries were nothing to fool with and they were far from any available medical help.

"I said," Dean repeated, "Yeah, you're ok or yeah, you hit your head?" Dean had reached out, cupping Sam's face with both hands and lifted his chin so that he could check his pupils. From there he used his right hand to gently explore Sam's scalp for any swollen, lacerated or tender areas.

"Dean…" Sam protested. "…I'm fine. I don't think I hit my head. It's just my ribs. But you did it…you figured out how to defeat Sekhmet."

"I did?" Dean looked mystified as to why Sam would think this. "How do you figure?"

"You said we need to ice her," Sam commented.

"Right, but we've known we needed to kill her," Bobby interjected. "I'm not seeing a plan there, Sam."

"We need to actually _ice_ her, Bobby," Sam clarified.

Dean's face brightened in understanding. "Pretty smart, there, college boy. Even in her spirit form, Sekhmet's a goddess and the 'normal' extermination methods aren't going to work against that kind of power. So, in order to level the playing field, we've got to weaken her…and the best way to do that is to subject her to her polar opposite…literally."

"She's a sun goddess, Bobby," Sam continued. "Blinding noontime heat is part of her power base. Cool her off and she's an ordinary, every day, hostile Casper that's vulnerable to the usual salt and burn tactics."

"But we don't have bones to salt and burn," Bobby objected. "She was a goddess. She never really had a mortal body to have the mortal bones, etc."

"No, she didn't," Dean agreed, "But in all of her forms she's had one constant…"

"The collar," Bobby said in wonder. "Remove and destroy the collar and you neutralize Sekhmet. Now all we have to figure out is how we're going to manage the Big Chill."

Sam smiled one of his lopsided grins. "I think I have that covered."

* * *

**To be continued…**

**About the chapter title: **I can honestly say I had a really hard time choosing a title for this chapter. The song title that best fit with the "action" of the chapter was "Free Fallin''" from the 1989 "Full Moon Fever" album by Tom Petty. I just didn't feel that the song or the band had the metal/mullet-rock background that held true to the patterns set by Supernatural's creators. So, instead, I settled on the slightly less well-fitting, but decidedly more classic rock-appropriate, "Dazed and Confused". The song is the centerpiece track from Led Zeppelin's 1969 debut album. The album cover is arguably one of the most recognizable covers in rock history, featuring a pen and ink drawing of the most famous photo of the zeppelin, _Hindenburg_, exploding into flames over the skies of Lakehurst Naval Air Station in New Jersey in May 1937.


	29. Prowler

**Disclaimer: **Refer to chapter 1.

**From the previous chapter:**

_Dean's face brightened in understanding. "Pretty smart, there, college boy. Even in her spirit form, Sekhmet's a goddess and the 'normal' extermination methods aren't going to work against that kind of power. So, in order to level the playing field, we've got to weaken her…and the best way to do that is to subject her to her polar opposite…literally."_

"_She's a sun goddess, Bobby," Sam continued. "Blinding noontime heat is part of her power base. Cool her off and she's an ordinary, every day, hostile Casper that's vulnerable to the usual salt and burn tactics."_

"_But we don't have bones to salt and burn," Bobby objected. "She was a goddess. She never really had a mortal body to have the mortal bones, etc."_

"_No, she didn't," Dean agreed, "But in all of her forms she's had one constant…"_

"_The collar," Bobby said in wonder. "Remove and destroy the collar and you neutralize Sekhmet. Now all we have to figure out is how we're going to manage the Big Chill."_

_Sam smiled one of his lopsided grins. "I think I have that covered."_

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**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

**Chapter 29: Prowler**

Getting to his feet had been problematic for Sam. The movement exacerbated his rib injury and initially caused him to be lightheaded. But that was twenty minutes ago and Sam's desperation to finish Sekhmet off had pushed him to continue on with the hunt despite his discomfort.

The hunt had continued on in hushed determination, a factor that Sam was glad for. It was taking every ounce of Sam's concentration to beat down the pain that welled in him with every movement. Even breathing was escalating his agony, as a feeling of fullness had developed under his left ribs and was forcing him to take shallow, minced breaths.

Bobby had been quietly mulling over the strategy the boys had come up with when his concerns got the better of him. "I get the plan you two came up with," Bobby insisted, "but what I don't get is just how we're going to get Sekhmet to follow us to the veterinary facility."

"I don't have that worked out yet," Dean gloomily acknowledged. That was the one thing in their plan that Dean wasn't sure about. But what he _was_ sure about was that he could feel he was losing more and more control over his muscles. If this hunt didn't go down soon, Dean was going to be no help to Sam and Bobby. Possibly, he might even end up being a liability.

Sam had lagged behind slightly. He was becoming winded trying to keep up and had stopped, bent over slightly, facing a large tree with his hands propped against its trunk. His head hung down between his arms as he battled to draw in more air, his eyes drawn to his left boot.

"I don't think attracting Sekhmet will be a problem, guys," Sam proclaimed breathlessly. Sam pushed back from the tree as the other two hunters turned in his direction. A wide swath of blood saturated the leg of Sam's jeans the whole way to his boot and small droplets of the sticky substance dropped occasionally from the cuff, splattering strange patterns onto his boot and the surrounding ground. "Looks like I've been leaving Sekhmet my own version of a trail of bread crumbs to follow. Something tells me she's gonna find us just fine."

Sam's earlier descent down the rocky height had reawakened the accelerated bleeding from his left thigh and shredded the pressure dressing that had been applied back at the house. The loose and ineffective dressing had done nothing to quell the flow of renewed bleeding.

"Jesus, Sammy," Dean chastised, "When did your thigh start bleeding so bad again?"

"Not sure," Sam whispered. "But we need to keep moving. We won't stand a chance if Sekhmet catches up with us out here. We need to get to the vetting area like we planned."

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The lioness thought she'd caught the scent of her prey on the wind. Now that she had climbed to the top of the precipice, she was certain she was on their trail. Even better, it was obvious from the tang of blood she detected on the air that one of them was wounded.

Wounded prey was easy prey, and easy prey made Sekhmet happy. She salivated at the thought of encountering her foes. The years she spent imprisoned with Ptah had only served to increase her bloodlust and the prospect of releasing the pent up emotion in the fierce onslaught of a lightning-fast charge, razor-sharp claws and gnashing teeth coursed ripples of anticipation through the cat's body.

Normally, a lion would need to stalk their prey to within one hundred feet or less before launching their attack. Only this cat wasn't your usual lioness. The rules of nature skewed under the weight of Sekhmet's status as a goddess. This animal possessed the wild, instinctual savagery and brutality of the lion, coupled with the deadly premeditative abilities of humans and cruel power of the gods.

As the trail continued through the forest, the space between splashes of blood lessened and the small pools of blood grew almost imperceptibly larger. Sekhmet understood. The wounded one was growing weaker, slower; the flow of blood greater. She decided to follow the blood trail until she got closer, close enough to push her prey; hurry them, exhaust them. Once she was certain where the trio was headed, she would circle wide and get ahead of them. A frontal ambush would be unexpected and give her the advantage of surprise.

As the wounded young hunter tired, she'd soon begin to exact her revenge. Yes, hunting him would be amusing, but really he was nothing more than a toy…an appetizer before the real entertainment. Even butchering the oldest hunter wouldn't satiate her murderous and ruthless yearnings.

Only the massacre of the human that had slaughtered Kahotep's mummified remains would quell the violent savagery that burned through Sekhmet's soul. She quickened her pace, careful not to get close enough for the hunters to attack, but close enough and obvious enough to alert them to her presence and push them into exhausting themselves. A roar of anticipated pleasure rolled from deep within the lion's chest. _Soon, hunters, soon, _Sekhmet thought as she made the decision to leave the blood trail behind in favor of maneuvering away and outflanking her quarry.

**To be continued…**

* * *

**About the chapter title: **The chapter title is from an early Iron Maiden song of the same name and made it's first appearance on their debut album in 1980. Although the story told by the song had NOTHING to do with the story of this chapter, I thought the song title went well with the fact that Sekhmet was on the prowl for our favorite boys!

I apologize for the short chapter, too. Seems my muse has left me with a rather awesomely sized writer's block. I'm really excited about the next few chapters, though, so I'm pretty sure I can churn out something a bit more substantial in the next few days.


	30. Cold as Ice

**Disclaimer: **See chapter 1. No profit is being made and no infringements are intended.

**A/N: **Since it's been a bit since I last posted, I've included a slightly longer than usual "From the previous chapter" section so that everyone can remember where we last left our heroes.

**From the previous chapter:**

_Normally, a lion would need to stalk their prey to within one hundred feet or less before launching their attack. Only this cat wasn't your usual lioness. The rules of nature skewed under the weight of Sekhmet's status as a goddess. This animal possessed the wild, instinctual savagery and brutality of the lion, coupled with the deadly premeditative abilities of humans and cruel power of the gods._

_As the trail continued through the forest, the space between splashes of blood lessened and the small pools of blood grew almost imperceptibly larger. Sekhmet understood. The wounded one was growing weaker, slower; the flow of blood greater. She decided to follow the blood trail until she got closer, close enough to push her prey; hurry them, exhaust them. Once she was certain where the trio was headed, she would circle wide and get ahead of them. A frontal ambush would be unexpected and give her the advantage of surprise._

_As the wounded young hunter tired, she'd soon begin to exact her revenge. Yes, hunting him would be amusing, but really he was nothing more than a toy…an appetizer before the real entertainment. Even butchering the oldest hunter wouldn't satiate her murderous and ruthless yearnings._

_Only the massacre of the human that had slaughtered Kahotep's mummified remains would quell the violent savagery that burned through Sekhmet's soul. She quickened her pace, careful not to get close enough for the hunters to attack, but close enough and obvious enough to alert them to her presence and push them into exhausting themselves. A roar of anticipated pleasure rolled from deep within the lion's chest. Soon, hunters, soon, Sekhmet thought as she made the decision to leave the blood trail behind in favor of maneuvering away and outflanking her quarry._

_

* * *

_

**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

**Chapter 30: Cold as Ice**

The trail bent lazily around a shallow pond and emptied out into a small clearing that contained the animal hospital. Phil's lions were still confined to their pens at the rear of the building, their roaring shattering the quiet as they paced anxiously, their feral eyes darting back and forth to scan the forest landscape.

Sam had been relieved to see the building come into view. He had become sick to his stomach again and felt as though he could vomit at any moment. Matters were only made worse by the fact that Sam's pain had now grown to include his left upper arm, shoulder and neck and he was finding it harder and harder to mask his discomfort.

Sam leaned his brutalized body against the cinderblock of the veterinary hospital as Dean stooped to pick the lock. Normally, he was a quick pick, but the increasingly severe tremors in his hands had made this lock a slower go than usual and left Dean wishing the trio had thought to get the key from Phil before setting out after Sekhmet.

There had been a large tree nearly ten feet from the entrance of the clinic that had died and been hewn off a few feet from the ground. Someone had carved a small seat into the remaining stump and Sam moved away from the building, sinking listlessly into the chair while he waited for Dean to finish.

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While Sam waited, his nausea had heightened into dry heaves as the pain in his left shoulder continued to grow. Thankfully, Bobby had been too busy scouting for signs of Sekhmet and Dean too busy with tackling the lock, for either of them to notice.

The salt-load shotgun Sam carried suddenly seemed to be made of lead. His arms felt too tired and weak to continue gripping the gun, so he shifted it until it lay protectively across his lap. Although Sam felt as though he was functioning in a fog, functioning more on instinct rather than intent, his well-honed instincts drove him to keep his weapon close. John had pushed both of his boys at a young age to understand that a hunter without his weapon, no matter how good he was, was usually a dead hunter.

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Sam sighed heavily and squeezed his eyes closed against his growing discomfort. It was then that the tawny blur of the lioness Sekhmet lunged from the cover of the forest, knocking Sam roughly from his seat. His shotgun skittered several feet to his left and beyond his reach.

Bobby raised his gun and fired a round of rock salt at the marauding feline. It had no real effect and the cat slashed murderously at Bobby's chest, sending him reeling backwards in order to avoid the razor sharp claws.

At the same moment the cat had attacked, Dean had finished picking the hospital door's lock and pushed it open forcibly. Rushing to Sam's side, he helped his dazed younger sibling to his feet and shoved him toward the open door.

Dean grabbed Sam's shotgun from where it had fallen and fired a round at the cat as it pounced upon Bobby. The angry cat turned to face Dean and Bobby sprinted to a small cinderblock storage building situated across the compound from the veterinary hospital.

Before slamming the door shut and taking shelter in the sturdy confines of the small building he shouted back at Dean. "Go! Do what you need to do! I'll be fine! I'll try to keep her attention as long as I can!"

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Dean stumbled back into the vet hospital to find Sam clumsily rummaging through the stocked supplies. Using heavy rubber gloves, he had pulled a large container labeled "Liquid Nitrogen" from the large specimen freezer and was working feverishly at removing the clasped cover.

Dean bolted the door shut and, despite his quivering muscles, had managed to push a large desk in front to help to reinforce the door. Next, he went to each window trying to determine if he could spot Sekhmet attempting to advance upon their stronghold. Even though he was certain Sekhmet was too powerful to be affected by it, Dean retrieved the salt from his duffel and placed lines of the granular material at each door and window.

_Salt's probably not gonna do jack against this bitch, but if there's even a slight chance of it helping, it's a chance I'll take._

Sam was hunched at a work counter, his skin pale and sweaty and his breathing rapid. He had already pulled a handful of shotgun shells from the duffel bag and spread them out on the counter. Sam was desperately working to empty them of the steel shot they normally carried but dizziness was overtaking him and fogging his mind and he had to stop frequently to refocus on what he was doing.

Dean forced his uncooperative legs to stagger over to the workbench. Although Sekhmet hadn't yet made any attempts to gain entry to the building the hunters knew it was only a matter of time and they worked as quickly as they could.

Dean found another pair of heavy rubber gloves and pulled them onto his quivering hands. He held the empty shell casings upright with a specialized tong-like instrument as Sam gingerly poured small amounts of the liquid nitrogen into them.

"You're sure this is going to work," Dean questioned.

"About as sure as I can be," Sam hedged. "I'm counting on the extreme cold of the Liquid Nitrogen to suck some of Sekhmet's power from her so that we can separate her from her necklace."

The process was tedious and slow due to the dangerous nature of the chemical. Even a small spill onto their skin would cause tissue death similar to that found in frostbite. They had only four shells completed when a wispy, gray mist billowed in through the ventilation system and the spirit form of Sekhmet materialized before them. Sam grabbed the shotgun that was resting next to him on the countertop and swung to take aim when he was knocked from his stool by an unseen force and careened across the floor, crashing into the wall on the far side of the building.

The spirit whirled to find Dean's gun drawn, the tremors in his hand causing the gun's aim to waver wildly. As Sekhmet charged, Dean fired. The wobbling aim of the shotgun caused the salt spray to clip her nebulous form with only a small portion of the rock salt load. The spirit dissipated, but Dean realized that the glancing shot wouldn't keep Sekhmet at bay for long.

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Dean looked to see Sam stirring weakly. He ached to rush to Sam's side to check on him, but knew he couldn't afford to drop his guard. With a final glance to be certain Sam wasn't under attack from the spirit, Dean grabbed the few nitrogen-charged rounds they had been able to assemble from the workbench and, as quickly as he could, loaded two shells into each of their shotguns.

By the time he was done, Sam was more alert and had painfully pushed himself to a sitting position. "Dean," Sam had called out, trying to clear his disorientation. "What's going on? Did we get her? Is she gone?"

"I only winged her, Sammy," Dean confessed. "She's gonna be back and she'll be pissed. We don't have enough rounds!"

Almost as though Dean's statement had been an invitation, Sekhmet's spirit form returned, quickly transforming into her feline form and swooping down on an astonished Dean.

Sam heard Dean cry out as a glancing blow from the cat's claws tore into the flesh of his abdomen. He struggled to pull himself from under the large cat but her sheer size kept him pinned to the floor as she clamped her fangs into Dean's left leg.

_Oh, God_, _no! It's happening! It's just like in my vision and I can't stop it! Oh, God, please, don't let him die!_

* * *

**About the chapter title: **Alright, I know this is going to sound lame, but I really DID have this chapter title picked out long before last week's episode when, to my amazement, they used this same 1977 Foreigner song in the "No Exit" episode. 

The only other ice reference that was coming to mind was "Ice Ice Baby" and, well, let's just say I couldn't bring myself to use a... cough, gag, wretch ...Vanilla Ice song as a chapter title. Anyway, Dean probably would have hunted me down for doing that to him! ;-)


	31. Urgent

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own anything to do with Supernatural. I'm not making any profit, just having a little fun with the boys. And I promise, I'll put them back where I found them when I'm done messing with them.

**A/N: **I apologize for the slight delay in getting this chapter up. I intended to post it yesterday (Saturday), but ended up doing a major re-write on it that, I think, really improved the quality of the chapter.

* * *

**From the previous chapter:**

"_I only winged her, Sammy," Dean confessed. "She's gonna be back and she'll be pissed. We don't have enough rounds!"_

_Almost as though Dean's statement had been an invitation, Sekhmet's spirit form returned, quickly transforming into her feline form and swooping down on an astonished Dean._

_Sam heard Dean cry out as a glancing blow from the cat's claws tore into the flesh of his abdomen. He struggled to pull himself from under the large cat but her sheer size kept him pinned to the floor as she clamped her fangs into Dean's left leg._

**_Oh, God, no! It's happening! It's just like in my vision and I can't stop it! Oh, God, please, don't let him die!_**

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**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

**Chapter 31: Urgent**

Bobby had heard Dean's screams from his stronghold in the storage shed and rushed to the vet clinic. He had obliterated the lock with a point-blank blast from his shotgun, but was still unable to push the door open because of the heavy desk that Dean had used to block it.

His efforts were enough, though, to momentarily distract Sekhmet, giving Dean an opportunity to draw one of the shotguns. The room exploded with the ear-shattering reverberation of the gun's report as the nitrogen load tore into the mystical lioness.

The extreme cold of the chemical compound undermined Sekhmet's power, causing her to revert to her human form.

"Oh, Dean," Sekhmet purred seductively. "You're all, like, blood and vengeance right now. Are you flirting with me?"

"If you were the last woman on earth," Dean hissed, "I wouldn't flirt with you."

"That's not what you said that night we spent together."

"Yeah, well, let's just say I was a bit misguided then."

Sekhmet had begun inching closer to Sam as he struggled to his feet and Bobby continued throwing his shoulder into the door in an unsuccessful effort to move the jammed desk. Dean raised his shotgun menacingly and aimed directly at Sekhmet. Warily, she stopped her advance towards the youngest hunter.

"Little brother's looking a bit worse for the wear, don't you think?" Sekhmet taunted. "It's no matter. I'm still going to have fun finishing him off."

"You're gonna have to kill me first."

"Mmmm. There you go flirting again. You certainly know how to make a girl happy." Sekhmet had once again resumed her slow and stealthy advance in Sam's direction.

"I know what will make _me_ happy…sending your ass back to whatever sandbox you crawled out of."

Sekhmet raised her hand and an unseen force slammed Sam hard against the wall, pinning him there as he gasped desperately for air. Black spots began flickering in front of Sam's eyes as Dean squeezed off the second nitrogen round from the gun he held in his right hand.

The cooling effect of the shot released Sekhmet's hold and Sam swayed dramatically as he watched Dean pump the last two nitrogen rounds from the gun he held in his left hand into Sekhmet's body.

As the frigid nitrogen rounds tore into her, Sekhmet howled in defiance and her previously well-defined form took on a vague haziness, eventually transforming into her spirit form. As her spirit hovered angrily near him, Sam realized that Dean had spent the last of their nitrogen loads and Sekhmet had still not been vanquished.

Knowing that she was strengthening again now that she was in her spirit form, Sam used the last vestige of his energy and staggered forward weakly. With a powerful lunge, he grabbed for the golden necklace slung around Sekhmet's neck. He managed to grasp the jeweled ornament as the unseen force once again slammed into him, catapulting his battered body into the rear wall of the clinic. As Sam crashed to the floor with a dull thud, the necklace careened across the slick, bloodstained tile, coming to rest at Dean's feet

Screeching a spine-chilling, unearthly shriek, Sekhmet rocketed across the room towards Dean as he pounded the necklace with the butt of one of the guns. The ferocious pounding pulverized the large center jewel into a million tiny shards and Sekhmet's spirit suddenly splintered, fading into oblivion, as a suffocating silence settled over the vet clinic.

_**xxxxxxxxxxXXXXXXXXXxxxxxxxxxxx**_

Bobby jammed his shoulder into the door of the animal hospital with all the strength he could muster and the large desk finally budged just enough to allow him to shimmy between the door and the frame. He squeezed inside to find the tile floor smeared with blood. Dean was standing unsteadily near the front of the room with the now useless shotguns dangling limply from his hands, blood staining his shirt and jeans like surreal crimson Rorschach tests.

Bobby scanned the room nervously. "I couldn't hold her off any longer! Where is she, Dean?"

Dean had seen the spirit fragmentize, splintering in a thousand different directions before dispersing like a column of smoke that's been buffeted by the wind. He'd known instantly that Sekhmet was finally defeated, that the destructive control she had held on his health had been lifted. After she had been destroyed, he'd felt a revitalization of his well-being, of his soul; almost as though some part of him that had been tainted by her and had withered away had been returned to its previous state of unpolluted resiliency.

Dean absently allowed the guns he still clutched to clatter to the floor and held his hands out in front of himself. No longer did they jerk and tremble in the uncontrollable spasms of muscles commanded by the disorganized and incoherent signals of an ailing brain. Dean took a deep breath and muttered a silent prayer of thanksgiving that this hunt had finally ended. When he answered Bobby's urgent plea, his voice was a husky rasp of unrestrained relief. "She's gone, Bobby. Sammy grabbed the necklace and Sekhmet is history."

With those words an alarming realization descended upon Dean. He'd seen Sam tear the necklace from Sekhmet's neck and be tossed across the room before she'd made her last desperate charge. Sam should be at his side, should be reveling in the satisfaction of a triumphant hunt. But Sam wasn't there. Dean turned to find Sam lying pale and unmoving on the floor at the rear of the clinic.

Bobby and Dean rushed to Sam's side, the younger hunter pressing his fingers softly to Sam's neck in search of a life-affirming pulse. A sickening sense of déjà vu encompassed Dean as he remembered doing the same thing as Sam lay apparently dying on the open plain of the preserve just a day before.

Sam's skin was moist and clammy and the pulse under Dean's fingers felt unusually rapid. At Dean's touch, Sam roused languidly, his eyelids heavy and his hazel eyes, normally ablaze with a radiant spark, appeared dull and stagnant.

"Dean…Sekhmet…"

"It's ok, Sammy. You got her," Dean reassured his younger brother.

"Dean, you're bleeding," Sam breathed, his eyes wide in fear. "And the spasms…"

"It's alright, Sammy. She barely got me. Nothing a few sutures won't fix up and the tremors are gone. She's history, Sam. It's over."

Sam's eyes closed in relief, an exhausted sigh escaping his lips. "It's over…Thank God, it's over."

_**xxxxxxxXXXXXXXXXxxxxxxxx**_

"Sam, we've gotta take care of your leg…slow the bleeding."

"Please don't make me move, Dean," Sam begged pitifully as several small tears traced their way down Sam's pallid features. "My stomach hurts and my shoulder is killing me."

"What do you mean your stomach hurts?" Dean questioned with a hint of alarm lacing through his voice. "When did that start?"

"Not long after Sekhmet had me doing that Greg Louganis over the cliff," Sam revealed as ripples of shivering overtook his body.

Reaching down, Dean lightly pushed Sam's shirts up to expose his torso. A large, angry appearing abrasion marred the young hunter's left flank. Dean placed his hand gently on Sam's lower right abdomen and pushed down slightly with the tips of his fingers and then did the same to Sam's upper right abdomen.

Sam grunted slightly, but didn't appear in any real distress, and his abdomen felt soft and pliant under Dean's fingertips. Moving to the lower left abdomen, Dean once again pressed down lightly as Sam squirmed slightly under his touch and his breathing quickened.

Positioning his hand just below Sam's left ribcage, Dean once again pressed lightly. Sam screamed in agony, his abdominal muscles tensing involuntary into a rigid mass. Sam clawed at Dean's hand, attempting to remove it in an effort to lessen his pain before the descending darkness of unconsciousness enveloped him.

Dean and Bobby exchanged apprehensive looks of understanding. "I saw an access road behind the building," Bobby informed Dean as he glanced around the room. Bobby sprinted to the phone that hung on the wall at the rear of the room. "I'll call for an ambulance. If his spleen is ruptured, he can't wait for us to hike back out of here."

Dean's eyes darted around the room looking for supplies they could use to help Sam until the ambulance arrived. Rifling through a cupboard, Dean snatched two large blankets, folding one repeatedly and placing it under Sam's legs, raising them about twelve inches off the floor. He then covered Sam with the remaining blanket before dashing to a closet labeled "Oxygen Supplies" and returning with one of the metal canisters and a length of plastic tubing.

_I don't have the supplies I need. Why the hell couldn't this be a clinic for humans,_ Dean mused as he used the attached wrench to activate the flow of oxygen and held the end of the slender connecting tubing near Sam's nose and mouth.

The cool flow of the oxygen against Sam's face roused him with a start and he struggled deliriously against Dean's assistance. "I…can't breathe!" Sam panted, his eyes wide in terror. "I've gotta…get…outta here. I…need…air!"

Bobby was still on the line with the 911 operator. "They dispatched an ambulance, Dean. They want an update on his condition."

"His skin's pale, cool and sweaty. He briefly lost consciousness, but now he's awake and kinda combative. I don't have anything to take his blood pressure with but I can still feel his pulse at his wrist, so he's got to have a blood pressure of at least eighty, but his breathing's rapid and gasping. He's really anxious and says he can't breathe."

_**xxxxxxxxxxXXXXXXXXXXxxxxxxxxxx**_

As a young boy Dean had complained when his father had forced him to learn the field medical techniques John had been taught in the Marines. At the time, Dean couldn't really see the point in it. After all, an ambulance was always just a phone call away, right?

John had tried to explain to his young son that there might be a time when help was a long way off, or even non-existent, and the difference between living and dying might lie solely in the skills that Dean possessed. Over the years, that actuality had been blatantly laid out in front of Dean more often than he liked to admit, but never more so than now.

Dean spoke soothingly to his younger brother while he held the oxygen for him. Sam had settled a bit after Dean had cranked the flow of oxygen as high as it would go, but he was still confused and restless.

"What do you mean a different ambulance is being dispatched?" Bobby screamed into the phone. His eyes darted anxiously from Sam to Dean as he listened to the dispatcher's explanation.

"Dean!" Bobby called out. "The closest available ambulance is more than a half-hour away!"

The small, local volunteer ambulance company had been dispatched to a car accident one town over and had been unable to rouse a crew for another ambulance. The dispatcher had been forced to call out the next closest ambulance company with an available crew, a company that Dean knew was much, much too far away.

"Screw it, Bobby," Dean roared as he searched furiously around the clinic. He snatched a set of keys he'd found out of the clinic's desk and tossed them at Bobby. "Here's keys. There must be a vehicle out back. We can get him there faster ourselves. He'll die waiting for that ambulance!"

"Forget it. We're taking him ourselves," Bobby cried into the phone and slammed the handset down on the receiver. He bolted through the rear door of the clinic, cranked the battered Toyota truck to life on the second try and pulled up to the rear door of the clinic.

"Hang in there, Sammy. Bobby and I are gonna get you to the hospital," Dean assured. "You just keep your eyes open, you hear me? Don't make me have to kick your ass!"

* * *

**Chapter title information: **This song is a track from Foreigner's 1981 album, "4", which produced several successful singles.

I have a confession to make...I'm feeling review deprived. I'd like to know what everyone is thinking of the story, it's pace, yada, yada, yada. I had planned on the next chapter or so being fleshed out for some _**heavy-duty**_ angst. Or, if y'all are getting tired of reading, I can gloss over them a bit and move the pace along some. Tell me what you'd like to see.


	32. Don't Let Go

**Disclaimer: **No profit…all fun. If you have any questions, see Chapter 1.

**A/N: **This chapter is heavily angst laden…as well as littered with technical medical terminology, procedures, etc. I argued with myself over including all of the technical stuff but, considering the popularity of the TV program "ER", I figured you were all up to dealing with whatever technical mumbo-jumbo I could dish out. I wanted to leave the reader feeling like they were actually right there next to Dean watching and listening to everything. If anyone has any questions regarding the medical part of this chapter, you can either ask via a review or PM me. I'd be glad to clear up any confusion.

**From the previous chapter:**

"_Dean!" Bobby called out. "The closest available ambulance is more than a half-hour away!"_

_The small, local volunteer ambulance company had been dispatched to a car accident one town over and had been unable to rouse a crew for another ambulance. The dispatcher had been forced to call out the next closest ambulance company with an available crew, a company that Dean knew was much, much too far away._

"_Screw it, Bobby," Dean roared as he searched furiously around the clinic. He snatched a set of keys he'd found out of the clinic's desk and tossed them at Bobby. "Here's keys. There must be a vehicle out back. We can get him there faster ourselves. He'll die waiting for that ambulance!"_

"_Forget it. We're taking him ourselves," Bobby cried into the phone and slammed the handset down on the receiver. He bolted through the rear door of the clinic, cranked the battered Toyota truck to life on the second try and pulled up to the rear door of the clinic._

"_Hang in there, Sammy. Bobby and I are gonna get you to the hospital," Dean assured. "You just keep your eyes open, you hear me? Don't make me have to kick your ass!"_

** -:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

****

**Chapter 32: Don't Let Go**

Bobby and Dean had all but carried Sam to the idling truck that waited just outside the rear door of the vet clinic and helped him to crawl inside the cab. Dean slid in next to him on the passenger side while Bobby once again took up position as the driver.

Sam leaned heavily against Dean, his head falling back against the seat and rolling lazily with the motion of the vehicle as it sped and bumped its way down the road. Dean supported Sam with his left arm as he used his right hand to clamp tightly down on the still-bleeding wound in Sam's left thigh.

"Come on, Sammy. Stay with me."

Sam's eyes fluttered open and closed again almost immediately. "I'm so tired."

"I know you are Sammy, but you've got to keep talking…got to keep your eyes open."

"I can't." Sam's voice was so weak and lifeless that Dean's blood ran cold as he strained to hear him.

"Yes you can, Sammy," Dean blurted angrily. "It's an order."

Despite wanting to obey, Sam found himself unable to refrain from releasing his consciousness to the relentless pull of sleep and he leaned even more heavily into his older brother.

"Dammit, Sam!" Dean shouted. "For once in your life listen to orders! Can't this beer can of a truck go any faster, Bobby?"

"We're going as fast as this tub will go. Any faster and she'll shake apart underneath us. Phil hasn't exactly given her much in the way of TLC."

Sam had heard the sudden change, not only in the timbre of Dean's voice, but in the way in which he addressed him. The abrupt change from 'Sammy' to 'Sam' was evidence enough that Dean was worried. Even through the thick haze that seemed to be brewing in Sam's head, he realized the only time Dean ever called him 'Sam' was if Dean was annoyed with him or if he was frightened.

The idea that Dean, his Dean…the Dean that could face down werewolves, demons and spirits without flinching…was frightened, both confused and terrified Sam and his eyes snapped open; a combination of fear, sorrow and pain reflected in their depths.

"That's it, Sam," Dean encouraged. "You just need to stay awake. Ok? You hear me? Stay awake."

Sam's eyes had once again started to drift shut and he just nodded weakly.

"Sam! Sam! Open your eyes! Sam!"

Dean's pleas garnered no response from Sam and Bobby allowed his eyes to stray from the road for a split second, fear etched into his expression, as he watched Dean nervously fumbling to searach for a pulse at Sam's wrist. The look of unbridled horror on Dean's face was replaced by one of utter relief as he felt the reassuring, though too-quick, thub-thub of Sam's pulse under his fingers. Bobby released the breath he'd been unaware he was holding and jammed his foot more strongly onto the accelerator, praying for even the most minute increase in the Toyota's speed.

About a mile from the hospital the aging truck shuddered and jounced badly as it caromed brutally across the irregular surfaces of a sizable pothole. The jostling of the truck's occupants roused Sam rudely from his world of inky numbness. A tortured moan was forced from his lips by the violent shifting of his battered body.

Dean peered down at his younger brother, watching as his eyelids parted slowly to reveal his once vibrant hazel eyes. Optimism and hopefulness began filtering small rays of light into the dark chasm of fear that had rent itself into Dean's soul when Sam had continued to remain unresponsive over the past several minutes.

"Oh, thank God," Dean whispered heavily. "Sam, wake up, buddy. Open your eyes. Talk to me."

"Dean?" Sam questioned weakly.

"Yeah, Sammy, it's me. We're almost there. You've just got to hang on, ok?

" 'Kay," Sam breathed as his eyes slid shut once again.

"Come on, Sam. You promised you'd stay awake. Open your eyes."

"Mmmm…"

Sam's eyes were half open and unfocused as the rusting junker of a truck lurched to a halt outside the Emergency entrance of the hospital. The hunters noted that the staff was ready and waiting for their arrival and surmised that the dispatcher had radioed ahead that they were coming in on their own.

Multiple hands assisted Dean in wrestling Sam's tall, lax figure from the truck and gently placing it on a gurney. Dean knew that he couldn't afford to impede the medical staff's ability to care for Sam, but he adamantly refused to leave his brother's side as the medical team rushed him inside.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

Normally, family members were not permitted beyond the registration desk until patients were assessed and stabilized, but the body language of the older sibling left no question that this family member would be one of the few exceptions. Dean found himself an out-of-the-way corner of the room and pushed himself deeply into it in order to see Sam and still not interfere with the trauma team. Dr. Stevens noted his bloodstained appearance and wondered to himself if the man was injured, too.

_I'll deal with him later. _The doctor looked in Sam's direction._ This kid's my first priority._

Sam's arrival had thrown each member of the ER staff into a whirlpool of frenzied activity, each simultaneously performing their predetermined tasks. Dean was quickly questioned about Sam's past medical history, his current symptoms and a brief explanation of Sam's fall.

An orderly used powerful trauma scissors to cut through Sam's shirts and jeans while another team member applied a rigid plastic collar around Sam's neck to stabilize it until X-rays could confirm the absence of any neck injuries.

A nurse applied small, circular patches to Sam's bare chest, snapped the leads to the cardiac monitor in place and flipped the "On" switch. A thin, squiggling line of luminescent green traced Sam's heartbeat as it raced across the small monitor screen.

An oxygen mask was placed over Sam's face while yet another team member worked quickly to start two IV's in Sam's left arm, drawing blood samples from the IV catheters before hooking the IV's tubing in and securing everything with clear, plastic tape.

"Alright," Dr. Stevens barked, "I want that blood sent for trauma pack labs and get Radiology in here for portable X-rays. I want a cross-table lateral C-spine, chest and left femur."

"Sam! Sam," the physician shouted as he rubbed his knuckles firmly across Sam's sternum. "Sam, can you hear me?"

The young hunter squirmed feebly and his head lolled slightly in the direction of Dr. Steven's voice, but he gave no verbal response.

"I'm not getting a verbal response but he is retracting from painful stimuli," the physician called out as he grabbed a small penlight from the pocket of his scrubs. Gently retracting Sam's eyelids, he shone the bright light in each of Sam's eyes.

"Pupils are equal at approximately 3 millimeters, with a brisk reaction to light."

Placing his stethoscope in his ears, the physician listened intently to multiple areas of Sam's chest.

"Heart sounds are normal, but tachycardic. Lung sounds are clear bilaterally, but diminished on the left."

"Pulse, one-twenty-four; respirations, thirty-two and labored; blood pressure, eighty-six over fifty; oxygen saturation is ninety-percent on fifteen liters non-re-breather mask," a nurse called out, as the recording nurse worked feverishly to write down all of the information shouted by the team members. "Skin's pale, cool and clammy. Two sixteen gauge IV's have been initiated and are currently running wide open. Monitor's showing a rhythm of regular sinus tach."

"Dr. Stevens," a nurse called out, "X-ray is here for the portable films whenever you're ready."

"Ok, let's get them in here," he agreed and gestured at Sam's left thigh, "and then we'll see what's going on underneath that dressing."

A bulky machine on wheels with a long, crane-like boom on it was pushed into the already congested room and positioned near Sam's bedside. The X-ray tech arranged the boom to a position to shoot films of Sam's neck. As she adjusted the various controls she cried out, "Shooting films! Any pregnant staff should clear the room." After a short pause, she depressed the button and a shrill beep signified the successful completion of the X-ray. The process was repeated in quick succession for X-rays of Sam's chest and left thigh and then the tech and her machine bustled quickly from the cramped, busy room.

The staff once again descended on Sam's bedside and the blood-soaked dressing on his left thigh was quickly cut away, a torrent of bright red blood pulsed from deep within the crater. "We've got arterial bleeding, folks. Put a sterile pressure dressing on this," Dr. Stevens ordered as he moved to examine Sam's abdomen.

Moving slowly across Sam's abdomen, the physician used his stethoscope to listen and called out to the recording nurse, "Gut sounds are absent," before performing the same examination that Dean had done back at the clinic.

The IV fluids that had been rushed into Sam's system had bolstered his blood pressure enough that he was a bit more alert, moaning occasionally. As the doctor moved to the left side of his abdomen and pressed down firmly, Sam shrieked in misery. Again, the doctor called out, "Abdomen's rigid with diffuse pain over the right quadrants and exquisite pain over the left quadrants. Who's the surgeon on call?" Without waiting for an answer he snapped, "Whoever it is, get 'em here."

Just as he'd finished his statement, the X-ray technician entered the room carrying a large file folder. "X-rays are done, Dr. Stevens."

The physician flipped the switch on the lighted viewing box and snapped the films into place on its surface, his eyes skillfully taking in every detail. Without turning from the X-rays in front of him he barked out, "C-spine's clear. You can take the collar off. The left femur looks good, but there are fractures of the left ninth and tenth ribs. There appears to be some left diaphragmatic elevation so I want a stat CT scan of the abdomen."

"The scanner's still down, Dr. Stevens. Latest estimate is another couple of hours before it's back up," the X-ray tech informed.

_Damn thing breaks down at the worst possible time!_

"Alright," Dr. Stevens conceded. "Let's get set up for a diagnostic peritoneal lavage, give me an update on his vitals, please…and find me a God damned surgeon!"

At that precise moment another person entered the room. "I'm here, Larry," the surgeon called out. "Whatcha got?"

"Probable splenic rupture in a twenty-three year old with deceleration injuries from a fall. There are fractures of the left ninth and tenth ribs with abdominal rigidity and extreme pain over the left quadrants. The plain films seem to indicate some left diaphragmatic elevation with shadowing, but CT's down. We're gonna do a DPL to see if we can find any free fluid in the abdomen. He's lacerated his left femoral artery, but the pressure bandage seems to have that in hand at the moment."

Gazing at the heart monitor, a nurse called out, "We're starting to see some premature ventricular contractions."

Glancing quickly at the monitor, the ER physician bellowed, "Where are my lab results?!"

A nurse shoved several sheets of paper into Dr. Stevens' hands. He scanned each page quickly but thoroughly. "Shit! His hemoglobin and hematocrit are practically non-existent. I want four units of O-neg blood…now! Get two units up and run them wide with pressure infusers. Also make sure he's typed and crossed for four more units in his own flavor."

While Dr. Stevens continued to manage Sam's overall condition, the surgeon applied sterile gloves and began the diagnostic peritoneal lavage by injecting a small amount of local anesthetic into the skin of Sam's abdomen. He made a small vertical incision in the skin and carefully passed a long, thin catheter through the opening and into Sam's abdominal cavity.

"Got your update," a nurse cried over the frenzy of activity. "Pulse has jumped to one-thirty-six, blood pressure's down to sixty, the respiratory rate is unchanged but the respiratory effort is markedly diminished with oxygen saturation down to eighty-three percent on the fifteen liters of O2. Skin remains pale, cool and clammy and the patient is unresponsive."

"He's tiring and he's getting acidotic," Dr. Stevens stated. "Push an amp of bicarb and follow it up with an amp of Lidocaine. I'm gonna intubate him, then I want him hyperventilated to bring his O2 saturation up."

"Christ! DPL's nothing but blood, Larry. He's bleeding out in front of us," exclaimed the surgeon. "Get him tubed and then we're red-lining to the OR! We'll figure out what needs fixed when we get him open. We're gonna lose him if we waiting much longer."

Dr. Stevens tipped Sam's head back and inserted a long metal blade into the back of his throat, using it to gently glide the breathing tube into place. Dr. Stevens held the tube steadily in place as a large oval-shaped ambu bag was attached to the end of the tube and squeezed repeatedly by one team member while another worked quickly to secure the tube in place with long strips of tape.

"We'll get a placement confirmation X-ray in the OR," the surgeon declared. "We don't have time to wait for it here. Let's go!"

Dean didn't think the pace of the medical team could become more frenetic than it already was, but the staff grabbed monitors, paperwork, IV's, a large, insulated box labeled "Blood Bank" and in an instant, his brother's broken body was whisked out the door and down the hall to the OR, leaving Dean and Dr. Stevens to stare plaintively after him.

Dean flopped roughly against the wall as exhaustion and emotion overwhelmed him and he allowed himself to slide slowly down to sit on the floor. He hugged his knees tightly to his chest as he rocked slightly back and forth.

"Don't let go, Sammy," he whispered. "You've gotta fight. Just don't let go."

* * *

**To be continued...**

**About the chapter title: **Yep, once again it's Foreigner. "Don't Let Go" is another cut from their 1981 album "4".


	33. Knockin' on Heaven's Door

**Disclaimer: **Refer to Chapter 1.

**A/N:** With the recent demons that have plagued the site, the alerts, etc, I've had a hard time posting an update and responding to reviews. So instead of delaying the chapter any longer than it already has been, I'm just going to express my undying thanks to all of you as a group for taking the time to review and express your opinions. I appreciate every last one of them!

**A personal note to Mishka89**: Ok, ok…you got me. In med school I specialized in Emergency Medicine and for the past 12 years have been practicing in an ER in a rural area. The severity of injuries seen in ER's doesn't change because of an area's population…but the available technology, etc. does. For that reason, some Dr's consider rural ER's a less than desirable or prestigious place to work, but I find when you don't have every imaginable "toy" at your fingertips, it keeps you thinking, on your toes and creative in caring for critical patients. Personally, I think it sharpens your critical thinking and assessment skills…and apparently makes for some pretty bitchin' fanfiction material. LOL!

But, enough about me…on with the show……………………

**From the previous chapter:**

_Dean didn't think the pace of the medical team could become more frenetic than it already was, but the staff grabbed monitors, paperwork, IV's, a large, insulated box labeled "Blood Bank" and in an instant, his brother's broken body was whisked out the door and down the hall to the OR, leaving Dean and Dr. Stevens to stare plaintively after him._

_Dean flopped roughly against the wall as exhaustion and emotion overwhelmed him and he allowed himself to slide slowly down to sit on the floor. He hugged his knees tightly to his chest as he rocked slightly back and forth._

"_Don't let go, Sammy," he whispered. "You've gotta fight. Just don't let go."_

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

**Chapter 33: Knockin' On Heaven's Door**

The British physician sighed deeply as he turned from the door through which his latest patient had disappeared accompanied by a gaggle of nurses and orderlies and a plethora of monitors and machines that whirred and beeped their proclamation of a life struggling to carry on.

_Did I do enough? Was there something more I could have done to help him? Should I have done something different? Is any of it going to matter in the end or will it be only a pitiful and ultimately meaningless attempt at fighting the relentless tide of Death?_

Doubts…there were always the doubts. As a physician, Dr. Stevens was accustomed to these feelings of self-doubt and second-guessing but somehow this case, this young man, was different. He couldn't put his finger on it, but there was something about Sam Townsend and his older brother that struck a chord with Dr. Stevens; something that made it matter that much more what happened to them.

The doctor was roused from his thoughts by the sight of his patient's older sibling still huddled in the corner of the trauma room hugging his knees tightly to his chest as though letting go of them was also letting go of his brother and would allow his world to crumble at its foundation.

Quietly crossing the room, the physician carefully laid a hand on Dean's shoulder as the young hunter continued to rock gently.

"Dean," the medic intoned softly. "Dean, son…this blood…are you hurt? We need to check you over."

Dean lifted his head, an expression of complete desolation playing across his features. Dean's world felt as though it was crumbling before him and there was nothing he could do; no monster he could fight, no evil he could vanquish, no Latin phrases to recite that would fix things. Dean thought the doctor had been saying something to him, but his thoughts had been so completely with Sam that he wasn't certain. "What?"

Dr. Stevens extended his hand to help Dean stand. "Let's get you to another exam room." The physician sensed Dean was about to resist so he quickly added, "Sam's gonna need to rest, not exhaust himself worrying over you…and you know he will until you get looked at."

Dean allowed himself to be helped up and led quietly to the next exam room. He sat heavily onto the edge of the trauma bed, his arms slack at his sides, his body slouched forward and his face devoid of expression. A nurse helped Dean strip to his boxers and lie back on the bed, but Dean didn't seem to notice.

"Dean? Dean…" the physician began. "Now that the adrenaline's worn off, I think you're in shock and a bit dehydrated. I'm going to have the nurse start an IV for you, ok?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Diane, start a line with Normal Saline while I get his vitals. Run the fluids wide for five hundred cc's then back it off to a hundred and fifty an hour."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

**One hour later**

"Ok, Dean," Dr. Stevens sighed. "I think that does it for the sutures. I'm gonna run a quick antibiotic through your IV and then I think we can let you go. Diane, can you see to it that Dean gets a gram of Ancef, please?"

"Sure can, Doc," the nurse threw over her shoulder as she began preparing the needed supplies.

"Once that's in," the physician went on, "the nurses will get you discharged…with instructions not to wrestle anymore lions. What ever possessed you and Sam to get into such a dangerous business, anyway?"

Dean couldn't help but inwardly laugh at the British doctor's choice of words.

_Possessed…yeah, well, if you only knew, Doc._

"It's kinda the family business. When can I see Sam?"

"I'm sure he's still in surgery, Dean. When you're done here, they'll show you where you and your friend can wait."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

The Emergency Room staff had ushered Bobby and Dean into a small room. The sign on the outside of the door said "Surgical Waiting Area" and nearly every chair was filled with people quietly waiting for word of their loved ones. A young couple was huddled in one corner while a middle-aged woman who was seated along the long wall absently flipped through an ancient magazine she'd found on one of the waiting room's tables. A television hung from its wall stand at the far corner of the room as several people gazed absently at the twenty-four hour news program and news ticker that flicked endlessly across the screen.

"Your brother's surgeon, Dr. Anderson, will come to talk with you as soon as he can," the clerk had assured.

But that had been hours ago and Dean had been pacing nervously ever since, his pent up, nervous energy preventing him from being able to sit still. Bobby hadn't even been able to convince Dean to take a few minutes from his anxious vigil to change out of his bloody clothing into the fresh T-shirt and jeans that Bobby had purchased while Dean was being treated.

Although the number of occupants in the waiting area had gradually dwindled with the passing hours, Dean's increasingly agitated fidgeting and blood-splattered clothing had begun eliciting numerous glances of uncertainty and uneasiness from the few people who remained. On his last pass, Bobby had noted a young mother subconsciously pull her infant closer, glancing warily as Dean paced violently past, muttering angrily to himself.

"Dean," Bobby growled, "You've got to sit down and chill. You're starting to scare people."

"I don't like this, Bobby," Dean barked out. "It's been hours and no one will say anything. You don't think…"

Dean's voice melted away without finishing the sentence. The thought that Sam may have died, and especially without Dean at his side, was too appalling for him to express out loud, as though saying the words made the possibility that much more likely.

"The fact that they haven't been out is a good thing," Bobby reassured. "It means that Sam's still fighting. He's strong, he's healthy and he's a fighter. He's gonna come through this, Dean. He **_is_** one of those hard-headed, stubborn-ass Winchesters, you know.

Bobby's comment stopped Dean's pacing and a faint, lop-sided grin began to grow on Dean's face, chased quickly by a repressed chuckle. "You've got _that_ right."

** -:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

An additional forty minutes of agonized waiting elapsed before the door of the waiting area swung silently open and Dr. Stevens, the ER doctor, stepped into the room. Dean and Bobby rose from their chairs as the British doctor walked over to them.

Dean was in no mood for wasting time on pleasantries and the appearance of the ER doctor, instead of the surgeon, filled Dean with dread. He wanted to know how his brother was doing and he wanted to know it now.

"Cut to the chase, Doc," Dean snarled.

"Normally, I don't do this, but after my shift ended I joined Dr. Anderson in the OR. He's still busy attending to Sam, but I knew you'd be anxious for an update, so I came on out to tell you what's gone on. Sam's been out of surgery for about twenty minutes now. A complete X-ray study was done in the OR and we found Sam's right wrist to be broken. The break was well-aligned so it was casted in the OR without a problem. The only significant injury we found was the ruptured spleen we had suspected."

Dean clapped Bobby heartily on the back and blew out a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank God. When can we see him?"

"I need you to understand," Dr. Stevens continued, "Sam's still in very serious condition. There's no telling how much blood he lost through his leg wound, but Dr. Anderson found a little over two liters of blood in Sam's abdomen from the ruptured spleen. Blood loss is rated on a scale of one to five. Sam's was a class four hemorrhage and it means that he lost more than forty percent of his circulating blood supply."

Dean felt himself pale at the news of his brother's condition. He was suddenly aware of Bobby's hands guiding him to sit roughly in one of the waiting room's chairs. Dean peered up at the doctor, searching his face for any hint of good news but couldn't find any.

The physician took a deep breath and continued on. "In the OR, Sam's BP bottomed out at forty and his heart rate became very irregular. Marty…um…Dr. Anderson was forced to start Sam on several intravenous drugs to help steady his heart rate and raise his blood pressure. So far, Sam's received six units of blood and Marty's left orders for him to receive another two units as soon as possible. At this point, we've run in as much high-rate IV fluid as we dare to. We're walking a very fine line between needing to keep Sam's blood pressure up and risking pushing him into pulmonary edema…a condition where Sam could literally drown in the fluids that are meant to help him."

Dr. Stevens pulled a chair over in front of Dean and sat down on it. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees in order to look directly into Dean's moist, downcast eyes.

"There is a small bit of good news in all of this," the doctor said sympathetically. "Marty was able to tie off the hemorrhaging areas of the spleen without removing it. That should help protect Sam from life-threatening post-operative infection. Sam's BP is holding steady at a respectable level with the Dopamine drip and the Lidocaine has regulated his heart rhythm pretty well. Over time, the amounts he's receiving of those drugs will be gradually reduced. Once we see he's maintaining his blood pressure and heart rate on his own, the Dopamine and Lidocaine can be discontinued. Dean, Sam's a remarkably fit young man and he's responded well so far. We're not completely out of the woods just yet, but barring any major complications, things are looking pretty hopeful for a full recovery."

"I need to see him, Doc," Dean implored.

"Dr. Anderson's watching him a bit longer in Recovery and then he'll be moved to ICU. Once he's settled there, I'm sure you can see him."

* * *

**To be continued…**

**About the chapter title: **Ok, yeah, it was an obvious and rather lame choice I suppose, but it works…and it's got some pretty awesome talent attached to it. Written by Bob Dylan, it's been covered by many artists including, but not limited to, Eric Clapton, the Grateful Dead, Eric Burdon, and on unreleased tapes by John Lennon. The 1989 Guns N' Roses version was featured in the soundtrack for the movie, "Lethal Weapon 2".

**In case you're wondering: **It's not a frequent practice but, yes, occasionally I have joined colleagues of mine in the OR or witnessed autopsies once my shift was done, if there was an especially interesting case.


	34. Between the Hammer & the Anvil

**A/N: **First off, let me apologize for the fact that this update is way, WAY overdue. I wrote two versions of this chapter…one with a complication, one without…re-wrote both of them because I wasn't happy with either one…and then settled on this one after I re-wrote it yet again. I've worked very hard on this chapter, tried to stay true to the Dean and Bobby we know and love, strike a good balance between exciting medical drama and dry, sleep-inducing medical lecture. As I'm finishing the final working of this chapter I've been awake for more than 29 hours straight. Lord only knows how coherent…or possibly more likely…how IN-coherent it may be. I hope it makes sense and is enjoyable to read.

I'm including the usual "From the previous chapter" section in size XXL since it's been so long since I last updated. Hopefully, it will remind everyone where, and in what state of health, we last left our heroes…

**From the previous chapter:**

"_Normally, I don't do this, but after my shift ended I joined Dr. Anderson in the OR. He's still busy attending to Sam, but I knew you'd be anxious for an update, so I came on out to tell you what's gone on. Sam's been out of surgery for about twenty minutes now. A complete X-ray study was done in the OR and we found Sam's right wrist to be broken. The break was well-aligned so it was casted in the OR without a problem. The only significant injury we found was the ruptured spleen we had suspected."_

_Dean clapped Bobby heartily on the back and blew out a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank God. When can we see him?"_

"_I need you to understand," Dr. Stevens continued, "Sam's still in very serious condition. There's no telling how much blood he lost through his leg wound, but Dr. Anderson found a little over two liters of blood in Sam's abdomen from the ruptured spleen. Blood loss is rated on a scale of one to five. Sam's was a class four hemorrhage and it means that he lost more than forty percent of his circulating blood supply."_

_Dean felt himself pale at the news of his brother's condition. He was suddenly aware of Bobby's hands guiding him to sit roughly in one of the waiting room's chairs. Dean peered up at the doctor, searching his face for any hint of good news but couldn't find any._

_The physician took a deep breath and continued on. "In the OR, Sam's BP bottomed out at forty and his heart rate became very irregular. Marty…um…Dr. Anderson was forced to start Sam on several intravenous drugs to help steady his heart rate and raise his blood pressure. So far, Sam's received six units of blood and Marty's left orders for him to receive another two units as soon as possible. At this point, we've run in as much high-rate IV fluid as we dare to. We're walking a very fine line between needing to keep Sam's blood pressure up and risking pushing him into pulmonary edema…a condition where Sam could literally drown in the fluids that are meant to help him."_

_Dr. Stevens pulled a chair over in front of Dean and sat down on it. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees in order to look directly into Dean's moist, downcast eyes._

"_There is a small bit of good news in all of this," the doctor said sympathetically. "Marty was able to tie off the hemorrhaging areas of the spleen without removing it. That should help protect Sam from life-threatening post-operative infection. Sam's BP is holding steady at a respectable level with the Dopamine drip and the Lidocaine has regulated his heart rhythm pretty well. Over time, the amounts he's receiving of those drugs will be gradually reduced. Once we see he's maintaining his blood pressure and heart rate on his own, the Dopamine and Lidocaine can be discontinued. Dean, Sam's a remarkably fit young man and he's responded well so far. We're not completely out of the woods just yet, but barring any major complications, things are looking pretty hopeful for a full recovery."_

"_I need to see him, Doc," Dean implored._

"_Dr. Anderson's watching him a bit longer in Recovery and then he'll be moved to ICU. Once he's settled there, I'm sure you can see him."_

* * *

**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

**Chapter 34: Between the Hammer & the Anvil **

The wait for Sam to be settled into his room in the ICU had seemed interminably long. Dean had wanted nothing more than to be at his brother's side. But now that he _was _there, he found himself wishing that he wasn't. The initial relief at being with Sam had been inexorably morphing into a soul-devouring guilt that left Dean warring with himself.

It wasn't right. Sekhmet had been after him, not Sam. It just wasn't right that Sam was the one paying the price, the one fighting for his life while Dean sat at his bedside with just a few claw marks that had needed nothing more than a suture job. A part of Dean needed to run from Sam's side; run far enough that he couldn't see his brother's battered and suddenly frail looking form, far enough that he could no longer hear the buzzing, beep, whirring machines that continually broadcast Sam's struggle.

Another part of Dean couldn't bear to leave Sam, couldn't bear to chance that Sam would need him and he wouldn't be there to heed the call. Hell, it was his short comings that got Sam in this shape to begin with, Dean wasn't about to gamble on failing Sammy yet again.

In the end, the internal war had left Dean paralyzed, too frightened to leave Sam's side and yet, too guilt-ridden to stay. So Dean did what he did best…he sat at Sam's bedside and hid behind his "I'm fine" face for the benefit of Bobby and the nurses, all the while allowing the guilt to eat away at him, to eat him alive from the inside.

Dean hated seeing Sam so fragile and vulnerable and the ventilator that was assisting Sam's breathing was a frickin' neon sign of that fragility. When Dr. Anderson had finally been able to speak with them, he'd told Dean and Bobby that Sam's traumatized body was too stressed to chance that he would exhaust himself trying to breathe on his own, so he would remain on the ventilator until some of his strength returned. Although he knew the apparatus was there to help Sam, every whirr of the machine that made Sam's chest rise and every hiss that allowed it to fall drove the guilt deeper and deeper into Dean until it slowly began chipping away at his fragile barriers and threatened to tear apart Dean's finely crafted façade of "fine".

As the bile rose in his throat for what must have been the hundredth time since he'd planted himself at Sam's bedside all those hours ago, Dean gently squeezed his brother's hand and glanced anxiously at the numbers flashing on the various monitors.

Dean had insisted that Janine, Sam's nurse, explain the significance of each monitor and he had taken it as his own personal crusade to watch every one of them for unexpected fluctuations. Despite his resolve, after endless hours of vigilance, Dean's eyelids grew heavy with exhaustion and he fell asleep.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

He wasn't even sure he'd felt it. He'd fallen asleep in the hard plastic chair next to Sam's bed, his fingers laced through Sam's and his head resting across his forearm. Just as Dean had begun to think he'd dreamt it, he felt it again…an almost imperceptible tightening of Sam's fingers around his own. It was weak, but it was there, and it brought Dean awake more quickly than any cup of lousy, black, on-the-road coffee ever could.

"Sammy? Come on, dude. Open up those peepers," Dean said with an embarrassed chuckle as he remembered the adolescent joy Sam had gotten from the old crone that had scared Dean speechless when they were hunting that Shtriga back in Fitchburg, Wisconsin. At the time, it irritate Dean to hear Sam laughing hysterically as he rubbed in the way the woman had told Dean that she "slept with her peepers open". Right about now, he'd welcome it.

_Man, I'd give anything to hear Sam laughing like that now._

Dean gave Sam's hand another gentle squeeze and tried again. "Come on, man. I need you back here with me."

Sam's fingers curled in on Dean's and his eyes slowly flickered open. As awareness began to rush back to him, Sam was assaulted by a constricting feeling in his throat that made him want to cough and gag uncontrollably. Pain seemed to emanate from everywhere and a burning sensation flared inside his nose.

Not fully aware of what he was doing, Sam reached up hoping to alleviate the disconcerting sensations when he felt his arms gently restrained and heard his brother's voice.

"Whoa, there, Kemosabe. Doc says you need those…says the ventilator's so you don't exhaust yourself trying to breathe and the tube down your nose is keeping your stomach empty so you don't get nauseated. Having to puke right now would hurt like a bitch, bro."

Sam looked at Dean, blinking several times as his vision cleared, a sudden desperate realization flashing in the depth of his eyes. Dean knew exactly what thoughts were racing through Sam's mind even though the endotracheal tube for the ventilator prevented him from voicing them.

"I'm fine, Sammy…really," Dean soothed. "Bobby, here," Dean continued, as he cocked a thumb toward the older hunter, "made sure I let the doc check me out. I've got a clean bill of health…top to bottom, inside and out."

Sam's eyes closed briefly in relief but they opened again immediately, drawing comfort from the sight and closeness of his brother.

"You should be glad they're not feeding you yet, dude. The food here…ugh. I could swear there's something supernatural about that Jell-O I saw down at the cafeteria. Food just shouldn't look like that, I mean, the way it jiggles without even being touched…"

Dean continued to prattle on pointlessly regarding the possible supernatural status of the hospital's food while Sam released himself to the feeling of safety that washed over him with the knowledge that his brother was at his side and his eyes slipped shut in sleep.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

The door to the tiny, glass-fronted cubicle pushed open with a faint whoosh as Sam's nurse entered the room.

"Hey, Janine."

"Hey, Dean…Bobby. Has Sam woken since the last time?"

"No," Dean answered flatly.

"How're you two doing? Holding up OK?", the nurse inquired sincerely.

Dean's gaze flipped nervously to Sam's monitors, then back to Janine. "I'd be better if his heart rhythm and blood pressure would even out some. They're bouncing around, doing too much freaky shit for my comfort."

"That's why I'm here, Dean," Janine explained, as she swabbed an alcohol wipe across a small, rubber-like port on one of Sam's IV lines, pushed the needle of a syringe through it and slowly began to inject a clear fluid. "I'm giving Sam another round of medication that Dr. Anderson ordered to see if we can get his rhythm settled a bit more."

After completing her task, pausing long enough to double check Sam's IV's and monitors, and throwing a quick, "I'll leave you three alone now" over her shoulder, Janine breezed quietly from the room. Dean stared after her, enjoying the view of the shapely woman's posterior as Bobby sat nearby silently shaking his head.

_That boy'll never change._

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

The thin veil of blackness that had surrounded Sam as he slept began to slowly peel back as light, sound and sensation once again began punching through. Sam could hear distant murmurings but was having difficulty making sense of any of it until he focused on the familiar tones of his brother's voice and willed the sound to wrap itself around him and pull him tenderly to the surface.

Dean had slid down in his hard plastic chair, resting his head on the upper edge of the chair's backrest while he occupied himself counting the textured pits in each square of the dropped ceiling of Sam's room. Bobby nudged Dean roughly with an elbow, drawing his attention from his purposeless endeavor. "Sam's awake again."

Dean cradled Sam's hand in his own, as much to comfort himself as to reassure Sam. "Hey, Sammy. Your nurse, Janine, was in a few minutes ago. Too bad you were still sleeping then, man. She's hot." Dean looked away, staring into space with a devilish grin on his face as though he was enjoying his own private porno flick. "She can give me a sponge bath any time she wants."

Dean was quickly brought back from his lecherous reverie when he felt Sam's hand twitch in his own. Looking back to his brother, Dean noted small muscle twitches scattering themselves along Sam's arms, legs and torso. A panicked look was quickly spreading across Sam's face.

"Take it easy there, dude. Everything's OK. There's nothing to go getting upset about."

With each passing moment, Sam's distress continued to intensify despite Dean's repeated attempts at reassuring him. As he squirmed weakly in his anxiety, Sam's heart monitor beeped wildly and Dean furiously and repeatedly mashed his thumb down on the nurse call button.

"Sam! Sam, you've got to calm down," Dean commanded.

Sam's eyes suddenly rolled back into his head as his body arched stiffly. His arms and legs thrashed savagely as every monitor in the room erupted in a wailing symphony of alarms.

Bobby dove through the open doorway of the room. "Help! We need help in here!"

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

Janine was the first to arrive in the room and she slammed her hand urgently into the large red panic button situated on the wall near the doorway. A few seconds later, "Emergency Response Team, ICU Room 312; Emergency Response Team, ICU Room 312" blared out over the public address system and a red light flashed continuously over the door, further alerting staff to the scene of the emergency response.

Staff flooded into the room as Sam's body continued to seize violently.

"Somebody get a bite block in his mouth before he clamps down on that endotracheal tube and start bagging him by hand. It's doing him no good fighting that ventilator," Dr. Anderson called out. "Give him five milligrams of Valium, IV push. Anyone witness this?"

"W-we did," Dean stammered out. "He'd woken up again and I was talking to him. He seemed OK, but then he started having these weird muscle twitches. He started getting really anxious and restless. I was trying to get him to calm down when his eyes rolled back and…and…this happened. What's wrong with my brother?"

Dr. Anderson ignored Dean's question and looking at Janine, asked a question of his own. "Have you noted anything new lately?"

"Nothing new…other than the Lidocaine IV bolus you ordered for the irregular heart rhythm."

"Mm-hmm," the doctor considered as he watched Sam's continuing forceful, spastic muscle contractions. Dr. Anderson glanced at his watch. "Ok, let's hit him with another five milligrams of Valium by IV."

The tension that had been palpable in the room eased as Sam's jerking movements slowed and then eventually stopped. The monitors that had previously been shrieking once again returned to their quiet vigils. The Respiratory Therapist continued hand ventilating Sam for another few moments before double checking the vent settings and re-attaching the endotracheal tube to the main unit.

Dean's enraged bellows had repeatedly filled the room, demanding to know what was happening, while Bobby physically restrained him from interfering with the medical team.

Dr. Anderson turned to face them. "Has Sam ever been diagnosed with a seizure disorder?"

"No," Dean spit out angrily. "I want to know what's going on!"

"Dean…"

"If I don't get some answers real fast…"

"Dean…"

"For God's sake, Bobby, I can't deal with you now," Dean screeched as he wrenched himself free from the older man's grasp.

Bobby reached out, grabbing Dean by both shoulders and quickly spun him around to face him. Bobby starred intently into Dean's eyes with a no-nonsense, don't-fuck-with-me look that appeared so similar to the one his father had used when Dean and Sam were kids, that it made Dean take a small, reflexive step backwards as his tirade came to an abrupt stop.

"Dean," Bobby began hesitantly, "what about…um, well…you know…Sam's 'spells'?"

"I really don't think…" Dean had started, but was cut short by the harried physician.

"What 'spells'?"

Dean took in a deep breath and sighed exhaustedly. "Sam has these…'spells'…where he gets an intense headache and then sort of 'phases out'. When he comes out of it, he tells me about things he saw and heard."

"Has he done this all of his life?"

"No. It just started about six months ago. They don't happen all that much so we never thought much about it," Dean admitted, his brain finishing off with the unvoiced thought, _"because we've had a yellow-eyed demon on our asses and these 'spells' have actually been keeping us in the game."_

"I see," Dr. Anderson mused. "Well, from what you're telling me, it sounds like Sam's been suffering from complex partial seizures. In some people that have a seizure disorder, Lidocaine can actually _induce_ a seizure. I'm pretty sure that's what we saw here. He probably seized with the dose he received in the OR, too, but we didn't recognize it because the anesthesia masked the typical violent muscle contractions."

"Janine," the medic barked, "I want Lidocaine put on an allergy list for Sam and under no circumstances should it be administered again. I'll write for something else in case we need to steady his heart rhythm. Also, I want a repeat abdominal CT scan and blood count. There's got to be something more than just the stress of trauma behind his wavering BP's and heart rhythms. Let's make sure we're not seeing the effects of further splenic hemorrhaging."

Turning once again to Bobby and Dean, Dr. Anderson placed a reassuring hand on Dean's shoulder. "I'll be back in to talk with you when the testing is done. Sam's young and strong. That can only work in his favor."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

A light knock came at the door and Dr. Anderson stepped inside without waiting for an answer. "Dean, Bobby…I've gotten the test results back. Sam's blood count has dipped a bit and a few slices of the CT scan showed a pocket of blood that's formed at the back of Sam's spleen… near the largest of the repaired lacerations."

Dean paled noticeably as he fought against a rising sense of panic and a renewed surge of white-hot guilt. Bobby laid a steadying hand on Dean's shoulder as the doctor continued.

"This isn't something that's necessarily all that unusual or life-threatening. At this point, it's not something that I would drag him back into the OR for, particularly since these hemorrhages often wall themselves off and never require any further intervention. In the meantime, we're going to transfuse him with another unit of blood and continue watching him. I've already ordered yet another CT of his abdomen to be done in a couple of hours to make sure the bleeding walls off. I really do think this will end up taking care of itself and Sam will still have a full recovery."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

**Two and a half hours later**

Dean and Bobby were once again at Sam's bedside when Dr. Anderson returned. The surgeon had quickly surmised that when it came to his brother, the older sibling was a believe-it-when-I-see-it sort of guy, so he'd brought the CT scans and lab results along to show him.

Dean crowded in closely as the physician spread the lab paperwork out on a rolling table.

"This is Sam's blood count from before," Dr. Anderson explained, "…and this is the one after this last transfusion. As you can see, his count has improved quite a bit. These are exactly the results we were hoping for. I'm very pleased."

"What about the scans," Dean queried anxiously.

Dr. Anderson grabbed the large file folder, pulled two films full of multiple images from it and slid them into the lighted viewing box on the wall. "This here," the physician indicated with a finger, "is the area of hemorrhage we identified after the seizure. And on this scan, you can see that the area has _not_ increased in size. It looks like it's walled itself off nicely. In the morning we'll do another round of labs and an additional scan just to be on the safe side."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

The night had been a long one for Dean. In fact, Dean thought it had been the longest one of his life, but Bobby's was longer. Dean had paced back and forth, sat down and gotten back up, chewed feverishly at his nails, endlessly hummed Metallica and otherwise acted like a caged animal for most of the night, leaving Bobby to run interference for any hapless staff member that might have inadvertently crossed paths with Dean.

"Jesus, Dean," Bobby groused. "Would you please sit still?"

"What the hell's taking so long?"

Bobby rolled his eyes. Hadn't he been over this at least, what…three…four hundred times already? With a heavy sigh, Bobby explained once again, "Dr. Anderson said he ordered all of Sam's tests as STAT tests. It's now _one_ minute later than the _last_ time you asked, so it's been a full thirty minutes now. I'm sure we'll be hearing something soon."

"Stat, huh? And what kind of medical mumbo-jumbo, double-speak shit is that, anyway?" Dean pouted.

"It's short for 'statim'. That's Latin for 'immediately'. Sammy always did pay more attention then you during my Latin lessons," Bobby grumbled.

"Yeah, and that's what made you guys 'two geeks in a pod'…noses always shoved in some book," Dean grumbled right back.

" 'Morning, gentlemen," Dr. Anderson greeted as he spread the lab results out and snapped the newest scans in place on the viewing box. "Gather round. I've got great news. Sam's blood counts have held steady since last night's transfusion and the area of hemorrhaging on the CT scans hasn't expanded. I'm keeping Sam here in ICU for a few more days so we can watch him real close and start weaning him from the vent. For safety's sake we'll do one more scan tomorrow morning…sooner if anything changes…and barring any unexpected changes I think we can start working him off the vent."

"That _is _great news," Bobby agreed heartily.

Dr. Anderson glanced over at the rather surly look on the older sibling's face.

_That's not quite the look I was expecting. I figured he'd be slapping backs and ordering a round of beers for the whole place._

"Something wrong, Dean?" the surgeon probed.

"So, Sammy's gonna be alright?"

Coupled with that question, Dr. Anderson found the look on Dean's face even more unreadable than he previously had.

"Yeah, I think he's finally turned the corner. Why?"

"After he fell, he told me he was ok when he obviously wasn't. I need him to get better…so I can kick his lying ass six ways from Sunday."

* * *

**To be continued…**

Look, ma! No cliffie!!!!!

**About the chapter title: **"Between the Hammer & the Anvil" is a cut from Judas Priest's 1990, "Painkiller" album. The title just seemed appropriate considering I've been beating the shit out of poor Sammy…and the album's title ("Painkiller") was just a happy accident that works too since Sam's gonna need a truck load of 'em when I'm finally done with him! LOL!


	35. Double Exposure

**A/N: **I'm certain you all don't care to hear a bunch of excuses for not updating sooner, but I just really felt that I needed to explain to my readers that have been so faithful just why it was that it seemed that I had abandoned you. My husband broke his leg on Christmas Eve and I have pretty much been trying to single-handedly run our dairy farm, horse breeding operation and dog kennel all while still pulling my full-time shifts in the ER. Needless to say, I've had precious little time to breathe, never mind to sit and write. It's only been through the kindness, generosity and hard work of our Amish neighbors that I've been able to keep my head above water. I know this chapter is short…so short you might even need a microscope to find it…and not horribly interesting or well written but I felt I needed to get SOMETHING up for you and to move the story along. I hope to carve some time out here real soon to get this story's loose ends wrapped up. My apologies if this chapter doesn't met the level of previous ones.

**A personal aside to Juliana:** I'm surprised you were the only one to question just why it was that the doctors had not been asking very pointed questions about Dean's health. Very observant of you…and nice to know my story's interesting enough for folks to pay that close attention to!!

Keep in mind, though, that of the 3 doctors we've met so far in this story (Dr. Stevens – ER, Dr. Connor – Neurology, Dr. Anderson- Surgeon), Dr. Stevens is the ONLY one that has seen Dean during his Sekhmet-induced illness and AFTER they vanquished her and he's been cured.

**From the previous chapter: **

" '_Morning, gentlemen," Dr. Anderson greeted as he spread the lab results out and snapped the newest scans in place on the viewing box. "Gather round. I've got great news. Sam's blood counts have held steady since last night's transfusion and the area of hemorrhaging on the CT scans hasn't expanded. I'm keeping Sam here in ICU for a few more days so we can watch him real close and start weaning him from the vent. For safety's sake we'll do one more scan tomorrow morning…sooner if anything changes…and barring any unexpected changes I think we can start working him off the vent."_

"_That is great news," Bobby agreed heartily._

_Dr. Anderson glanced over at the rather surly look on the older sibling's face._

_That's not quite the look I was expecting. I figured he'd be slapping backs and ordering a round of beers for the whole place._

"_Something wrong, Dean?" the surgeon probed._

"_So, Sammy's gonna be alright?"_

_Coupled with that question, Dr. Anderson found the look on Dean's face even more unreadable than he previously had._

"_Yeah, I think he's finally turned the corner. Why?"_

"_After he fell, he told me he was ok when he obviously wasn't. I need him to get better…so I can kick his lying ass six ways from Sunday."

* * *

_

**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

**Chapter 35: Double Exposure **

_Hhaa...hhaa...hhaa..._

_His breathing came in panicked gasps as his desperate attempts to draw in oxygen fueled a conflagration of white-hot, searing agony that burned through every cell of his being._

_Hhha...hhaa...hhaa..._

_Thoughts raced wildly through his head, churning, swirling, roiling, in an agitated crush of disconnected memories, sounds and scenes that shrouded him in a dense fog of horror._

_Hhaa...hhaa...hhaa..._

_He could hear the snapping of twigs as the large animal pursued him relentlessly, its jaws snapping wildly at his heels._

_Hhaa...hhaa...hhaa..._

_A powerful force slammed into him, the stench of hot breath assaulting his nose, the feeling of all-consuming terror assaulting his mind._

_Hhaa...hhaa...hhaa..._

_Falling...that was the sensation he was feeling...and he understood in that moment what it really meant. Falling, tumbling, plunging...relenting, yielding, succumbing...dying._

_I'm gonna die...Oh, my God...I'm gonna die..._

Dr. Stevens woke with a start, sitting bolt upright on the now disheveled bed of the ER on-call room. His scrub top adhered snugly to his sweat covered body as his chest heaved in large, quavering gulps of air. He ran a shaking hand through his mop of reddish-brown hair as his eyes darted warily around the dimly lit room.

A single low-watt reading lamp was the only source of light in the small room and it provided only an anemic illumination of its immediate surroundings. The majority of the room was shrouded in almost impenetrable murk. Still feeling the terror of his nightmare, the physician continued to scan the dark recesses of the room when a form slowly pulled from the shadows.

A tall, dark figure appeared slowly as it breached the weak lighting. The collar of the man's navy pea-coat was turned up at the back and his hands were pushed deeply into the coat's pockets. Shadows played across the man's features but Dr. Stevens could make out a pair of intense eyes, crinkled around the edges, the effects of age and more than the man's share of tragedy. His slightly lop-sided grin was encompassed by a dark, scruffy beard that was peppered with swatches of grey. Although the man appeared older and more haggard than he remembered, he exuded the same almost arrogantly authoritative bearing that the Brit had encountered only once before.

"John? John Winchester, is that you? Geez, you practically scared me to death. How did you know where to find me? It's been years."

John's face was filled with the competing emotions of sadness and gratitude. "Thank you."

"Huh?"

"My boys..."

"I don't understand. Is everything OK?"

"Thank you..."

"Just tell me wha-..." Dr. Stevens' words faded on his lips as John's figure seemed to disperse and blend mysteriously with the oppressive shadows that blanketed the room. The physician hurtled off the bed and jammed the room's overhead light switch, flooding the previously impenetrable shadows with a stark light and desperately searched the room for any signs that John Winchester had truly been there. Finding nothing only served to set his nerves further on edge.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

It had been two days since his odd nocturnal encounter and the feeling of unease that had shrouded Dr. Stevens had yet to abate. The sudden appearance of deeply buried memories from a past he had tried desperately to forget only increased the intensity of his anxiety. What was worse was that his gut told him that his past was about to come barreling up to kiss his present right in the ass.

He wasn't sure what it was, really. It was just a niggling sense that all wasn't what it seemed, that he had been part of something that defied the logic of rational men, part of something that belonged more in the fantastical writings of gifted authors than the glaring realities of daily life. And squarely at the center of those feelings was the Townsend brothers.

He couldn't get past the feeling that he'd only been told a small portion of their story and it was the untold portion that added to the physician's unsettled feelings. He'd caught brief glimpses of the elder boy over the past few days as he maintained his vigil at his brother's bedside and each sighting left the doctor stunned at the boy's apparent health. Just a short time ago this same young man had sat in his ER in a nearly vegetative state with a bleak and hopeless diagnosis. Yet, here he was today walking, talking and functioning normally; the picture of vitality, his symptoms apparently completely resolved. It defied medical explanation and, in Dr. Stevens' mind, only deepened the mystery surrounding the young men and added to his discomfort. Worst of all, he still wasn't sure just how his past and John Winchester's nocturnal visitation figured into the equation.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

An additional week had gone by and Dr. Stevens was still unable to get the brothers off his mind. He wasn't certain just why he felt compelled to see the boys again, nor did he really know just what he would say when he did, but the feeling was so overwhelming that he decided to check in on them at the end of his shift.

A light knock resounded from the door. Dean looked up quickly, his face breaking into a large grin. "Hey, Doc. I was hoping we'd see you again. I don't think I ever said, 'Thanks'."

Dean knew his statement to the physician was woefully lacking, that it didn't nearly convey the gratitude he felt towards the medic for the huge part he'd played in saving his brother's life. It wasn't that he didn't feel the depth of his emotions. It was just that he wasn't good at expressing his true feelings. Most of his life he'd suppressed his true feelings out of necessity, until he'd gotten to the point where he was almost pathologically unable to express them.

"No problem," the Englishman assured. "I figured you've had more important things on your mind." He gestured in Sam's direction as the boy emerged from the bathroom, pushing his IV pole, and slowly crossed the room with deliberate steps, his face scrunching in discomfort and a sharp hiss escaping from his lips as he pulled himself back into bed. "Just seeing him doing so well is thanks enough."

Sam had spent a week in ICU before being moved to his current room on the Medical-Surgical floor. It had taken Bobby a full two days to convince Dean to leave Sam's side long enough to return to the Hoover's to shower, shave and put on clean clothing. In the end, Bobby had had to resort to the only method he knew would work. Sure, it was cruel he supposed, playing on the boy's fear and guilt in regards to his younger brother, but it was the only method he was certain would be effective. And so it was that Bobby had tossed a major guilt trip in Dean's lap that Sam waking to see Dean in blood-covered clothing would serve no other purpose than to upset him and derail his recovery. A freshly scrubbed and shaven Dean had arrived back at the hospital just in time to see Sam's eyes flutter open for the first time after surgery and he'd left his side only briefly ever since.

"Yeah, Marty...uh, Dr. Anderson," Sam stammered, "said he's gonna spring me from this place the day after tomorrow."

"Well, that's great," the doctor enjoined with genuine delight. "You were a very lucky young man." His facial expression darkened noticeably, creasing with the emotion of inner conflict. He really liked these boys and he hated having these nagging, uncertain feelings. He turned and looked at Dean. "In fact, you've _both _been very lucky."

Dean stiffened slightly. He could sense where this was heading, that the questions about his miraculous recovery were bubbling just below the surface. He had hoped to avoid this, but in his heart he knew it was inevitable and hastily searched for a way to steer the conversation in another direction.

He was just about to change the subject when the doctor spoke again, looking him square in the eye. "Look, I don't know what's going on with you two or who you are...for real. All I know is that you and your brother have a propensity for having injuries that don't always match up with the explanations. And I know you're up, walking around all normal and healthy and everything, when just days ago you were dying of an incurable illness..."

Dean cut the other man off. "What can I say, Doc? I take my vitamins..." Shooting a glance at Sam, the older hunter added, "...and I drink lots of tea."

The Brit laughed in frustration at the flippant and flimsy explanation. "You remind me of someone I met a decade or so ago, when I first came to this country. I was living on the East Coast at the time. He helped me with a...a...a particular problem I encountered. He was just as cheeky, impudent and evasive as you are...only his name wasn't Townsend...it was Winchester."

The physician hadn't missed the shocked, nervous glances that shot back and forth between the two brothers, nor the way Dean's mouth silently opened and shut repeatedly as he tried in vain to form some sort of comeback.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," the physician sputtered. "I knew it! I knew something was up with you two! Your name's not really Townsend, is it? It's Winchester! You're John Winchester's sons!"

* * *

**About the chapter title: **I didn't have much time to give this one a lot of consideration, so I just went with the fact that both boys are now being exposed as not being who they claimed they were…hence, Double Exposure. 


	36. Sweet Emotion

**A/N: **As some of you noted, there was a bit of a "jump" in the last chapter. That "jump" was completely intended in order that I could write this chapter in the manner that I wanted. Please be aware that this chapter flips back and forth between Sam's POV and Dean's POV and it's also a flashback chapter that eventually works it's way back to the present time. I've provided headers to try to keep things from getting too confusing. Also, where the last chapter was bordering on being microscopic...this one is HUGE. I just couldn't find the right spot to cut it into two chapters, so it's coming to you as a MEGA-chapter! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

**From the previous chapter:**

_"Yeah, Marty...uh, Dr. Anderson," Sam stammered, "said he's gonna spring me from this place the day after tomorrow."_

_"Well, that's great," the doctor enjoined with genuine delight. "You were a very lucky young man." His facial expression darkened noticeably, creasing with the emotion of inner conflict. He really liked these boys and he hated having these nagging, uncertain feelings. He turned and looked at Dean. "In fact, you've both been very lucky."_

_Dean stiffened slightly. He could sense where this was heading, that the questions about his miraculous recovery were bubbling just below the surface. He had hoped to avoid this, but in his heart he knew it was inevitable and hastily searched for a way to steer the conversation in another direction._

_He was just about to change the subject when the doctor spoke again, looking him square in the eye. "Look, I don't know what's going on with you two or who you are...for real. All I know is that you and your brother have a propensity for having injuries that don't always match up with the explanations. And I know you're up, walking around all normal and healthy and everything, when just days ago you were dying of an incurable illness..."_

_Dean cut the other man off. "What can I say, Doc? I take my vitamins..." Shooting a glance at Sam, the older hunter added, "...and I drink lots of tea."_

_The Brit laughed in frustration at the flippant and flimsy explanation. "You remind me of someone I met a decade or so ago, when I first came to this country. I was living on the East Coast at the time. He helped me with a...a...a particular problem I encountered. He was just as cheeky, impudent and evasive as you are...only his name wasn't Townsend...it was Winchester."_

_The physician hadn't missed the shocked, nervous glances that shot back and forth between the two brothers, nor the way Dean's mouth silently opened and shut repeatedly as he tried in vain to form some sort of comeback._

_"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," the physician sputtered. "I knew it! I knew something was up with you two! Your name's not really Townsend, is it? It's Winchester! You're John Winchester's sons!"

* * *

_

**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

**Chapter 36: Sweet Emotion**

**One week ago**

It had been two days since his brother had returned to him when Sam had awakened briefly and just as suddenly been taken from Dean again when he suffered a seizure due to a medication reaction. Since that time, Dean had spent every moment at his brother's side, refusing to leave for any reason, his clothing long ago grown stiff from the now brick-colored splashes of dried blood that covered them, some of it Dean's...most of it Sam's.

Over the past two days, Sam had uneventfully been weaned from the ventilator and the doctors had assured Dean and Bobby that no lasting harm had come from Sam's seizure. But as the minutes stretched into hours, and the hours into days, without any sign of Sam awakening again, nerves became increasingly raw and the uncertainty grew until it was almost palpable in the air of concern that hung around the young man's bed.

"Dean," Bobby started, "I know you're tired of hearing me, but I really think you need to take some time from this, go get cleaned up, get something to eat and get some sleep."

"I'm not leaving him, Bobby. I can eat right here and I can sleep right here."

Bobby sighed deeply. He'd had this same conversation with Dean countless times over the past two days and the response was always the same. Now he was getting desperate. He knew Dean was on the edge and closer to going over it than he'd ever seen him before. He had to do _something_ to get him to back down and step back from the situation long enough to breathe and he was becoming increasingly more convinced there was only one way of doing it. It certainly wasn't a tactic Bobby would enjoy employing, but it was the only option he could see at a time when he was out of options.

"Look at yourself, Dean. You're head to toe in bloodstains. What if Sam was to wake up and see..."

"_When_ he wakes up, Bobby, not if."

"_When_ Sam wakes up," Bobby started again, "if he sees you looking like that he's gonna panic thinking you're hurt. You wouldn't want to be responsible for setting back his recovery, would you?"

The stricken look on Dean's face made Bobby cringe inwardly. He knew pulling such a hurtful guilt trip would hit Dean hard, but seeing that it tore him apart showered Bobby with his own burden of guilt for resorting to it. When Dean spoke next, his voice was so small and vulnerable sounding that it seemed to Bobby as though Dean was once again the small child from all those years ago when he and John Winchester had first met.

"OK, Bobby. You'll stay with him?"

"Of course I will. You go back to the Hoover's, get cleaned up and something better to eat than some burger out of a box and things'll seem a lot better when you get back."

Dean rose and slowly walked to the room's doorway, stopping briefly as he glanced dejectedly back at his brother's still form before exiting with a deep sigh and his head hanging.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

Somewhere deep inside, in some intuitive way, Sam had known when Dean was at his side. But now, a vague but persistent sense that Dean was no longer with him left Sam with a growing need to find his way back from the dark, silent world that had swallowed him and held him captive for the past two days. He needed to understand why Dean wasn't there, to assure that he was safe. What made that need more urgent was the increasing certainty gripping Sam that there was another presence around him. It was a presence that felt somehow different. In some intangible way it felt similar to the things they hunted and yet it had an oddly comforting feeling about it, as well.

The need to find his brother and the uneasy feeling from this unknown presence, pulled at Sam as he pushed to clear away the darkness that was all around him. As his connection to his body and his surroundings increased, his awareness of the strange presence amplified. Sam forced his heavy eyelids open, blinking and squinting them open and shut repeatedly as he tried to adjust his unfocused eyes to a lighted world to which they had grown unaccustomed.

Sam's eyes slowly scanned the room, making note of the darkness outside the window to the right of his bed. How long had he been out? Hours? Days? He knew it had been daylight when he'd last awoken. His eyes continued around the room on their search for the presence that he felt growing stronger with each passing minute. His anxiety began to build as his sweep of the room failed to turn up any sign of Dean or Bobby. Where were they? Why had they left him alone? Is the Demon here?

As his eyes fell once again upon the chair nestled against the wall near the door he was certain there was someone standing next to it. Sam carefully scrubbed at his still blurry eyes with his left hand. When he looked again he gasped in recognition.

"Dad?"

"Sam." John gazed at his youngest son, a small smile creasing his lips while a look of sadness surrounded his eyes.

"Dad. How? You died...that night in the car. You died because of me...because of the Demon...because of what I am."

"Trust the chained dragon."

Tears filled Sam's eyes and he struggled to contain them as they threatened to spill down his pale cheeks. "Dad, I'm so tired and I miss you so much. I never should have wasted all those years fighting with you."

"Be ready...evil is coming."

"I don't know how to fight this war anymore, Dad," Sam confessed, his tenuous hold on his emotions breaking and allowing the tears to flow freely. "I've lost everyone. Everyone around me dies. I can't lose anyone else...I can't lose Dean."

John's form turned and slowly began to dissipate into the shadows. "Trust in the chained dragon."

Sam had tried determinedly over the past several months to come to terms with losing his father, but the pain of that loss was so overwhelming. He had carried around months of guilt over his father's death. After all, he had been driving the Impala the night his father died, the night the Demon blindsided them with a semi. Of any of them, shouldn't he have known it was coming? Hell, he was supposed to be a psychic. What good were his abilities if he couldn't even protect the people that he loved, if those abilities actually _attracted_ evil? Overcome by emotion and exhaustion, Sam collapsed limply into his pillow, his voice weak but filled with a desperate pleading as immense sobs consumed him. "Don't leave me again. Please don't leave me."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

The shower, clean clothing and home-cooked meal had done much to soothe Dean's raw nerves. But all that had been done by Dean's brief return to the Hoover's was instantaneously undone when he arrived back in Sam's room to find him sobbing uncontrollably and calling out pitifully to not be left alone again. A surge of anger flashed over Dean as he realized that Bobby was not at Sam's bedside as promised and he had awoken to find himself alone. But that anger was easily eclipsed by the crushing guilt Dean felt for not being there when his brother woke and needed him most.

Dean rushed to his brother's side, tenderly running the fingers of one hand through Sam's unruly hair, the other gripped tightly onto Sam's left hand as the wracking sobs continued. "Shhh, little brother. It's OK. I'm sorry I left, but I'm here now and I'm not leaving again. It'll be alright."

Bobby was stuffing his cell phone back into the pocket of his jeans as he rounded the doorframe into Sam's room, muttering under his breath. "Damned reception. Thing's practically useless." He looked up to see the pain and emotion pouring from the younger man and it brought Bobby up short. "Oh, Jesus! Dean, I'm sorry. I only stepped out for a minute, I swear. He was still sleeping when I left. Joshua called to check on Sam and the reception was cutting in and out. I wouldn't have left if there'd been any sign of him waking up." Bobby's words rolled quickly over one another in his eagerness for Dean to understand why he'd gone back on his promise to stay with Sam.

Dean continued brushing the hair back off Sam's face, soothing his younger brother as Sam clutched and grabbed at Dean in an effort to pull himself closer to the comfort of his brother's embrace. "It's OK, Bobby. I understand. I just need to get him calmed down before he hurts himself." Dean watched as Sam's heart rate jumped and wavered wildly. "Shhh, Sammy, shhhh. That's it. Take some deep breaths. Come on, now...you can do it. Relax. I'm here."

The erratic beeping of the heart monitor began to steady as Sam slowly stopped struggling and surrendered himself to his brother's touch. "That's it, Sammy. Just relax. Take it easy. Good...good."

Sam lay for some time encircled in his brother's reassuring arms, each boy silently thankful for the other's nearness.

"I had a dream he was here, Dean." Sam's voice was barely above a whisper.

"Who," Dean queried. "The Demon?"

Sam looked up at Dean with moist, remorseful eyes. Dean could see the emotional pain etched on Sam's face. "No, it wasn't the Demon. I had a dream Dad was here...he told me I had to be ready, that evil was coming."

"It was just a dream, Sam," Dean soothed. "Nothing bad's gonna happen to you as long as I'm around."

Sam stared off absently as he remembered all that John had said. "He told me I needed to trust in the chained dragon." Sam looked up with worried eyes. "But I don't know what that means."

"It doesn't mean anything, Sammy. It was just a dream. OK?"

Sam sighed dolefully. "Yeah, OK. I'm sorry, guys."

"For what?" Bobby questioned.

"For getting so upset...about a dream."

"You don't have anything to be sorry about," Dean asserted, "except for not 'fessing up to being hurt. Do you know how close you came to 'checking out'? You ever do that again and I'll kick your ass."

Sam smiled weakly then blinked repeatedly as he fought the increasingly heavy feel of his eyelids. "I can take you. Come on. Right now...outside."

Dean laughed heartily at the joke. "Yeah, right, Princess. You've never been able to take me...never will."

Sam yawned widely, his eyelids sliding shut for longer and longer periods as he slowly gave into his wounded body's need for sleep.

"Rest now, Sammy. We'll talk more in the morning."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

**Six days later**

The nurses had done everything they could to make Sam comfortable. The head of his bed had been raised high, a large, soft pillow nestled behind his back for support and the over-bed table pushed in across his lap. What was making Sam _un_-comfortable was the breakfast that was spread out on the tray in front of him. He'd spent the last twenty minutes idly playing with his food, shoving it around the plate, flipping it over with his fork or otherwise prodding at it in an effort to identify just what it was supposed to be.

"Mornin', Sunshine," Dean called out as he entered the room.

"Hey."

"Saaammy," Dean warned, a tone of drawled reproach entering his voice as though he was a father admonishing a young boy. "Why aren't you eating? They're never gonna let you outta here if you don't eat."

"God, Dean. Have you seen this stuff? I'm not sure it even qualifies as food." Sam once again jabbed viciously at the items on his tray. "I've seen charcoal from a barbecue pit that's more appetizing than this toast, the eggs are like rubber and this..." Sam used his spoon to scoop into a gelatinous mound of oatmeal in a bowl and held the viscous contents aloft for inspection. "Well, I'm not real sure _what_ it's supposed to be, but I can tell you, you can hang wallpaper with it, no problem."

"Um hmm," Dean commiserated. "And that's why I stopped off and got you this." Dean produced a small McDonald's take-out bag from behind his back and dangled it triumphantly in the air next to Sam.

Sam's eyes widened in anticipation and he reached out to grab hold of the bag but Dean snatched it away. "Ah, ah, ah, Sammy. You gotta say it first."

"Come on, Dean. I'm starving." Sam clutched his left arm across his abdomen to support his tender muscles and made another unsuccessful grab with his casted right hand at the enticing bag that Dean was once again waving tauntingly nearby.

"Ohhhh, so close, Sammy. Come on, you know you want to say it," Dean teased.

"Oh, alright," Sam spat out. "You're the best, OK? You're the best brother anyone could have. You happy? Now give me my breakfast."

"Damn straight, I'm the best brother." Dean tossed the bag down onto the over-bed table and settled into the chair next to Sam's bed.

Sam dug into the take-out bag eagerly, quickly unwrapping an Egg McMuffin, taking a huge bite and mumbling around it. "Jerk."

Dean was just about to respond when Dr. Anderson entered the room. "I see you've discovered the joys of take-out. Can't say I blame you." The doctor crossed the room holding Sam's chart and paused at his side. "I'm very pleased with how you've been doing and I've made arrangements to transfer you to a regular room later today, but first, I'd like to do one more test...an EEG. I really think we need to be certain that what we suspect are partial complex seizures don't need some sort of further treatment."

Sam stopped eating suddenly and swallowed convulsively. "You want to do a brainwave test on me?" He was just about to protest when Dean spoke up.

"I don't know, doc," Dean stated, a devilish grin working its way across his lips, "you gotta have brains to do a brainwave test."

"Nice, Dean. Real nice. Thanks."

"No, seriously, Doc, I think that's a good idea."

Sam shot Dean a look of incredulity but said nothing. As much as he wanted to protest he knew he couldn't explain his reasons for not wanting the test while Dr. Anderson was in the room.

"OK, then. I'll get him set up for that EEG right away and we'll move him to his new room immediately afterwards," Dr. Anderson asserted as he scribbled away in Sam's chart before flipping it shut and walking out.

Sam allowed the doctor to leave the room before turning furiously towards Dean. "What do you think you're doing? My visions are helping us. We can't fight the Demon without them. I can't let someone give me medication to get rid of them. No. No way. I won't do it. I'm not having that EEG."

"Yes, Sam, you are. For all we know whatever's going on in that freaky head of yours is hurting you. We have to know..."

"No we don't, Dean," Sam interrupted angrily. "I'm fine. Hunting the Demon's more important and if my visions help that, well, I'm not..."

A look of unrestricted rage washed over Dean's face and his hands trembled lightly. "Don't you ever say that, Sam," Dean snapped angrily. "Don't you _ever_ say the hunt for that Demon's more important than you are."

Dean paused briefly. When he spoke again, his tone was softer, more hesitant. "Look. I'm not good at this sort of thing. It's just that...I just...I need to know that everything's OK with you. I've lost so much...Mom, Dad, Pastor Jim, Caleb..."

Sam's brow creased at the pain that played across his brother's features and the shimmer that had suddenly overtaken Dean's eyes.

"Sammy, I can't lose you, too, on top of everything else. Please...just let them do the test."

Sam reached his hand out silently and gripped Dean's forearm, giving it a firm squeeze before quietly consenting. "Alright, Dean. I'll do it. I don't like it," he added quickly, "but I'll do it."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

**Two hours later **

**Medical-Surgical Unit**

While Sam had gone for his EEG, Dean had been ushered to Sam's new room where he waited impatiently for the testing to be completed. He knew Sam still harbored some reservations about the test and he felt a bit guilty for pushing him into it, but in the past six months since Sam's visions had begun Dean had worried almost endlessly about what effect they were having on Sam, both emotionally and physically. He hoped that the EEG would give them some answers and put his mind to rest.

Dean looked up from the magazine he'd been absently thumbing through to see Sam being wheeled into the room in a wheelchair, his IV bags slung over a hook on the back of the chair. Dean was instantaneously in big brother mode when he saw the distressed, agitated look on Sam's face.

"Sammy? You OK? What's wrong?"

The orderly helped Sam settle into the bed, removed his IV's from the hook on the wheelchair and placed them on the IV pole at the head of the bed. After making certain that Sam was safely tucked in bed, the orderly turned to leave. "I'll let your nurse know you're here. She'll be in to check on you."

The moment the orderly exited the room, Sam pushed back the covers and threw his legs over the edge of the bed. The movement pulled at his tender abdomen and pain flashed along his left side. He sat there panting as blackness danced around the edges of his vision.

Dean clasped Sam gently by both shoulders. "Slow down. Where do you think you're going? Come on, Sam. Talk to me."

"We've got to go. We've got to get to Joshua," Sam blurted breathlessly as his words tumbled faster and faster. "I had a vision...during the EEG...Meg killed Joshua. We've got to warn him."

"We _will_ warn him, Sam, but you're not in any shape to be fighting off a four year old, never mind that demon bitch." Dean kept one hand on Sam to steady him and dug his cell phone from his jeans pocket with the other, flipping it open with a flick of his wrist and dialing with his thumb. "No one else is gonna die, Sammy, I promise."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

**The next day**

A light knock resounded from the door. Dean looked up quickly, his face breaking into a large grin. "Hey, Doc. I was hoping we'd see you again. I don't think I ever said, 'Thanks'."

Dean knew his statement to the physician was woefully lacking, that it didn't nearly convey the gratitude he felt towards the medic for the huge part he'd played in saving his brother's life. It wasn't that he didn't feel the depth of his emotions. It was just that he wasn't good at expressing his true feelings. Most of his life he'd suppressed his true feelings out of necessity, until he'd gotten to the point where he was almost pathologically unable to express them.

"No problem," the Englishman assured. "I figured you've had more important things on your mind." He gestured in Sam's direction as the boy emerged from the bathroom, pushing his IV pole, and slowly crossed the room with deliberate steps, his face scrunching in discomfort and a sharp hiss escaping from his lips as he pulled himself back into bed. "Just seeing him doing so well is thanks enough."

"Yeah, Marty...uh, Dr. Anderson," Sam stammered, "said he's gonna spring me from this place the day after tomorrow."

"Well, that's great," the doctor enjoined with genuine delight. "You were a very lucky young man." His facial expression darkened noticeably, creasing with the emotion of inner conflict. He really liked these boys and he hated having these nagging, uncertain feelings. He turned and looked at Dean. "In fact, you've _both _been very lucky."

Dean stiffened slightly. He could sense where this was heading, that the questions about his miraculous recovery were bubbling just below the surface. He had hoped to avoid this, but in his heart he knew it was inevitable and hastily searched for a way to steer the conversation in another direction.

He was just about to change the subject when the doctor spoke again, looking him square in the eye. "Look, I don't know what's going on with you two or who you are...for real. All I know is that you and your brother have a propensity for having injuries that don't always match up with the explanations. And I know you're up, walking around all normal and healthy and everything, when just days ago you were dying of an incurable illness..."

Dean cut the other man off. "What can I say, Doc? I take my vitamins..." Shooting a glance at Sam, the older hunter added, "...and I drink lots of tea."

The Brit laughed in frustration at the flippant and flimsy explanation. "You remind me of someone I met a decade or so ago, when I first came to this country. I was living on the East Coast at the time. He helped me with a...a...a particular problem I encountered. He was just as cheeky, impudent and evasive as you are...only his name wasn't Townsend...it was Winchester."

The physician hadn't missed the shocked, nervous glances that shot back and forth between the two brothers, nor the way Dean's mouth silently opened and shut repeatedly as he tried in vain to form some sort of comeback.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Dr. Stevens sputtered. "Your name's not really Townsend, is it? It's Winchester! You're John Winchester's sons!"

The room fell eerily silent, neither boy certain whether they should admit to their true identities or continue vehemently denying it. They knew that John's twenty-two year search for the demon that had murdered his wife, their mother, had put him in contact with any number of people. Some of those people, like Caleb and Pastor Jim, had become trusted allies, often assisting with research and sometimes participating in the odd hunt or two. Others had been innocent people that had run afoul of the evil John hunted, had been assisted by him and then, not believing what their eyes told them they'd seen, walked away vowing never to allow themselves to think or speak of such crazy things again.

Others still, saw only what was on the surface...a single father raising two young boys in a vagrant lifestyle, unable to settle down, distraught over his wife's death and surrounded by an air of mystery. These people had always been the most dangerous; the well-meaning neighbors, teachers or school nurses that saw and heard strange things, witnessed unexplained bruises and injuries on the boys and a father who often left his young boys alone and unsupervised late into the night while he was off God only knows where, doing God only knows what, sometimes for days at a time. John and the boys had had to dodge agents from the Department of Child Welfare more than once and it had driven home to both Sam and Dean the need to do everything they could to ensure people didn't find out who they really were and just what the family "business" was.

Dean was about to take the safe route and deny any knowledge of what Dr. Stevens was talking about when an orderly entered the room pushing an empty wheelchair. "Mr. Townsend, I'm here to take you for your CT scan."

As he watched Sam gingerly climb from his bed and seat himself in the wheelchair, Dean seized his opportunity for avoiding Dr. Stevens' assertions. "Sorry we can't stick around, Doc, but Sam's got one more abdominal CT scan to pass before Dr. Anderson will let him out of here and it looks like they're ready for him. Gotta go." With that, Dean quickly brushed past the physician and followed Sam as the orderly wheeled him down the hallway towards the elevators.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

The CT scan completed, Sam had crawled back into the wheelchair and was once again being transported through the hallways, this time, by a different orderly. Dean lagged somewhat behind because, not surprisingly, he had flirted with every female member of the Radiology staff and come away with more than a few telephone numbers. Walking down the hallway, Dean was sorting through each one, giving Sam a play-by-play of each woman's attributes.

Turning one last corner, the orderly pushed Sam's wheelchair through the ICU doors and into room 312. Sam looked over his shoulder as best he could at the orderly. "I think you made a mistake. I was moved to room 514 a few days ago."

"No, no mistake," the orderly assured. "I was told to transport you to room 312 and get you settled into bed."

Sam shot a questioning look at Dean as he obediently wriggled into the bed. Dean's only response was a shrug of his shoulders and a 'who knows' raising of his eyebrows.

"I still think there's been some mistake."

The orderly glared at Sam with disgusted sneer. "Look, pal, I just follow orders, OK? You see 'Doctor' on this nametag anywhere? I don't get paid enough to try and figure out what they're doing half the time. I just do what I'm told, keep my nose clean and collect my paycheck at the end of the week." The orderly exited the room in a huff, leaving Dean and Sam staring at each other with perplexed expressions.

Seconds later, a nurse walked in and proceeded to place Sam back on a cardiac monitor and applied a pulse oximetry probe to the end of his right index finger. "Dr. Anderson will be in to see you in just a few minutes." Before Sam or Dean could question her, she had turned and slipped quietly from the room.

"Oooo-kay," Dean drawled out. "That was all just a little too 'Twilight Zone' for _my_ comfort."

Sam fidgeted nervously on the bed. "You don't think they saw something on the new CT scan, do you?"

Before Dean could answer, a portly man with grey-hair, thick glasses and a long lab coat strode into the room. He held out his hand to Sam and pumped vigorously when Sam grasped onto it. "I'm Dr. McCune. I'm taking over your case from Dr. Anderson."

Sam looked quickly back and forth from Dean to Dr. McCune. "What? Why? Is there something wrong with my CT?"

The doctor laughed lightly. "No, no, nothing's wrong with the CT. Everything's good in that respect."

"Well, then why is he back here," Dean interjected.

"We got the results of your EEG from yesterday, Sam. The initial portion was abnormal enough, but the section where the tech indicates you had an event...I believe Dr. Anderson indicated that you call them 'spells'...anyway, I've been a Neurologist since before my partner, Dr. Connor, was even born and I've never seen anything like it. I want you closely monitored while we do more testing. That's why you're back in the ICU."

"But I was going to be discharged in two days," Sam protested.

"Well, that's all changed now, Sam."

"No! No way. I'm not staying. I'll sign out AMA. Dean, help me with my clothes."

Dean started around the end of the bed towards the closet where Sam's belongings had been stowed.

Dr. McCune reached into his pocket. "I was afraid of that, actually." Withdrawing a syringe from the pocket of his lab coat, he quickly swabbed off a port on Sam's IV, plunged the needle through it and pushed the fluid into the IV tubing.

"What the hell are you doing," Dean barked as he lunged across the bed for the syringe. "What did you just give him?"

The doctor dodged Dean's grasp and began yelling. "Security! Security!"

Two burly men dressed in law enforcement-type uniforms entered the room almost instantly and began grappling with an enraged Dean.

"You need to remove this man. He attacked me and he's endangering my patient," the physician shrieked, adding a shudder or two for good effect.

"No!" Sam screamed, pulling up in bed and reaching out for his brother. "Leave him alone! Don't!"

The doctor placed his hand on Sam's arm. "This boy is very sick. He's not thinking straight." Dr. McCune pointed in Dean's direction as the guards struggled to subdue him. "He's trying to prevent the boy from getting the care he needs!"

Dean's face reddened and an explosion of veins stood out on his forehead in his frenzy to get at the physician. "You lying bastard! What did you give him?! What are you doing to him?!"

"Please, leave him alone!" Sam begged. "He's my brother!" He collapsed back onto the bed, his body feeling sluggish and his head swimming from the medication that had been injected into his IV. "Dean!"

"Sam! Sammy!" Dean continued to thrash wildly as he saw his brother's increasingly uncoordinated movements.

One of the guards grabbed Dean around the mid-section, digging his beefy fingers in deeply in an effort to gain a handhold on Dean's twisting, muscular body. Dean howled in pain as the guard's fingers grated mercilessly across the wounds Sekhmet had bestowed upon him at the veterinary clinic. He doubled over in agony at the red-hot sensation that burst across his abdomen and the second guard pounced on him, slamming Dean to the floor, his head ricocheting off the tiling. Dean could hear Sam weakly calling out for him as the shadows closed in on him and the two security officers dragged Dean's limp form from the room.

Sam stirred weakly on the bed. "Dean! Dean!" Then darkness swallowed the younger boy, as well.

Dr. McCune approached the nurse's station.

"No family members or friends are permitted into that room unless I say so. I want Security outside his door at all times. Understand?"

The nurse silently shook her head.

"Good," Dr. McCune confirmed. "I want him watched closely. He even farts wrong and I want to know about it. That boy's going to make me one very famous doctor."

* * *

**To be continued…**

**About the chapter title: **I thought this chapter had a lot of intense and varied emotion in it so I went with a track from Aerosmith's 1975 album, "Toys in the Attic", as my chapter title choice. I think Dean would be proud.

So...tell me...was this chapter worth the wait???


	37. Crazed Institution

**Disclaimer:** I wish I could stake a claim to 'Supernatural'...and especially to Sam and Dean...but I can't. I gain nothing from this story other than the joys of playing with the Winchester boys for a bit. Unfortunately, I must give them back to Eric Kripke and the CW Network when I'm done.

**A/N:** I just wanted to remind everyone that this story is SLIGHTLY AU since my John died in the car accident at the end of the first season. Also, I thought Nicki Aycox did such a wonderfully evil job of portraying Meg, that I decided to bring her back in the last chapter...obviously ignoring the fact that she died at the end of Season One. And, as always, this story is completely un-beta'd so any mistakes are mine and mine alone.

**ALL EVENTS IN THIS CHAPTER OCCUR RELATIVELY SIMULTANEOUSLY!!**

**From the previous chapter:**

_"No! No way. I'm not staying. I'll sign out AMA. Dean, help me with my clothes."_

_Dean started around the end of the bed towards the closet where Sam's belongings had been stowed._

_Dr. McCune reached into his pocket. "I was afraid of that, actually." Withdrawing a syringe from the pocket of his lab coat, he quickly swabbed off a port on Sam's IV, plunged the needle through it and pushed the fluid into the IV tubing._

_"What the hell are you doing," Dean barked as he lunged across the bed for the syringe. "What did you just give him?"_

_The doctor dodged Dean's grasp and began yelling. "Security! Security!"_

_Two burly men dressed in law enforcement-type uniforms entered the room almost instantly and began grappling with an enraged Dean._

_"You need to remove this man. He attacked me and he's endangering my patient," the physician shrieked, adding a shudder or two for good effect._

_"No!" Sam screamed, pulling up in bed and reaching out for his brother. "Leave him alone! Don't!"_

_The doctor placed his hand on Sam's arm. "This boy is very sick. He's not thinking straight." Dr. McCune pointed in Dean's direction as the guards struggled to subdue him. "He's trying to prevent the boy from getting the care he needs!"_

_Dean's face reddened and an explosion of veins stood out on his forehead in his frenzy to get at the physician. "You lying bastard! What did you give him?! What are you doing to him?!"_

_"Please, leave him alone!" Sam begged. "He's my brother!" He collapsed back onto the bed, his body feeling sluggish and his head swimming from the medication that had been injected into his IV. "Dean!"_

_"Sam! Sammy!" Dean continued to thrash wildly as he saw his brother's increasingly uncoordinated movements._

_One of the guards grabbed Dean around the mid-section, digging his beefy fingers in deeply in an effort to gain a handhold on Dean's twisting, muscular body. Dean howled in pain as the guard's fingers grated mercilessly across the wounds Sekhmet had bestowed upon him at the veterinary clinic. He doubled over in agony at the red-hot sensation that burst across his abdomen and the second guard pounced on him, slamming Dean to the floor, his head ricocheting off the tiling. Dean could hear Sam weakly calling out for him as the shadows closed in on him and the two security officers dragged Dean's limp form from the room._

_Sam stirred weakly on the bed. "Dean! Dean!" Then darkness swallowed the younger boy, as well._

_Dr. McCune approached the nurse's station._

_"No family members or friends are permitted into that room unless I say so. I want Security outside his door at all times. Understand?"_

_The nurse silently shook her head._

_"Good," Dr. McCune confirmed. "I want him watched closely. He even farts wrong and I want to know about it. That boy's going to make me one very famous doctor."_

* * *

**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

**Chapter 37:** **Crazed Institution**

As the security guards hauled Dean's dazed and limp body from the ICU, out a private, side entrance and down a narrow alleyway, his head began to clear. Somewhere deep inside Dean knew he needed to focus, needed to clear his head enough to defend himself, and more importantly to defend Sam. The guards hauled him roughly across the pavement and deposited Dean in a heap. Brian, the taller of the two, jabbed at him with the end of his steel-toed boot.

"This jackass sure went down easy," Brian gloated, taking a second, more vicious jab at Dean's form with his boot.

Before the boot could connect, Dean lashed out with his hands and quickly forced upwards on the unsuspecting officer, knocking him off balance and sending him crashing to the pavement with a thud. In seconds, Dean was on top of the guard, his fists swinging wildly, splatters of Brian's blood splashing here and there as Dean's fist slammed into his face, jaw and ribs.

The momentary surprise of Dean's ambush had worn off and the other guard grabbed at Dean's shoulders and wrenched him free of his comrade. Chad's violent shove sent Dean careening into the unforgiving metal surface of a nearby dumpster, sending a plethora of multi-colored dots dancing into Dean's view. As they began to clear, he levered himself against the dumpster and pushed to his feet, swaying slightly as he tried to adopt a fighting stance.

"Son of a bitch," Brian screamed as he pulled his haggard body from the ground and joined Chad as he faced off with Dean. "You're gonna pay for that, asshole."

Dean knew he was at a disadvantage. He was still reeling from his go-round with these idiots back in the ICU that had resulted in the gash on his forehead that sent a steady stream of blood into his eyes and down onto his shirt. Plus, the ebb and flow of his impaired vision from the hit he took from the dumpster was toying with his balance and depth perception. Still, getting back to the ICU to protect Sam was paramount and he knew he could easily take on Dr. McCune...but only if these goons were out of the way first.

The fact that Chad and Brian were keeping him from Sam filled Dean with a visceral rage and he shot forward with a savage swing at Chad's jaw. The punch didn't land squarely and Dean plowed awkwardly into Brian, who swept his feet out from under Dean with a quick swipe of his right leg. Landing forcibly on the macadam knocked the air from Dean's lungs and he lay gasping desperately for air.

Brian's large hands clasped Dean by the upper arms and savagely hauled the shorter man to his feet. "Tough guy, huh? Let's see how tough you really are." Brian thrust Dean backwards into Chad, who pulled Dean's upper arms behind him and held him fast. An explosion of pain ripped across his abdomen as Brian's punches tore away suture after suture from Dean's healing abdominal wounds. Flashes of light crossed Dean's vision as Brian's beefy hand slammed into his nose, the crunch of shattered bone punctuating the ferocity of the blow. A merciless upper cut to Dean's jaw split his lip and brought darkness once again to Dean's world and he slumped helplessly in Chad's arms.

"That's what I thought," Brian crowed. "You're not so tough now, are you, shithead."

Chad laughed menacingly and allowed Dean's brutalized body to slowly slide to the ground. Satisfied at their handiwork, both guards turned and headed back to their posts outside Sam's door.

**Nurse's Station, ICU**

Bobby Singer had arrived in the ICU almost ten minutes ago and he was still not getting any answers. He'd been informed that Sam had been transferred back to the ICU when he'd dropped by room 514 on the Medical-Surgical wing for a visit. The staff there had been unable to explain why Sam had returned to his previous room and the staff in the ICU seemed to be thwarting all of his attempts at getting information there. With each reiterated non-answer to his questions, the volume of Bobby's voice crescendo'd a tiny bit more.

"What do you mean you can't tell me anything about Sam Townsend? I practically raised that boy! I want to know why he was re-admitted to the ICU and I want to know now!" Bobby had both fists tightly clenched and resting on the top of the nurse's desk as he leaned in close. He'd never hit a woman, or at least not one that wasn't possessed, but he certainly wasn't averse to using intimidating posture to get what he wanted.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't give you that information. It's confidential and Federal law prohibits me from divulging it unless we've been given prior authorization from the patient. All I can do is confirm for you that Mr. Townsend is here in room 312," the nurse explained with a sigh.

"Well, then," Bobby purred sarcastically, "why don't you take your lily white ass of a nurse's uniform for a walk, go to Sam's room and get your authorization from Sam right now."

"I'm sorry, sir," the nurse began again condescendingly, "but Mr. Townsend's condition prevents him from being able to give that authorization at this time."

Bobby felt as though the ground had dropped out from beneath him as the nurse's words registered in his head. _Mr. Townsend's condition prevents him from being able to give that authorization at this time. _Grabbing on to the edge of the counter, Bobby steadied himself and decided to try tugging on the nurse's heartstrings, that is, if she had a heart. At this point Bobby wasn't so sure.

"I need to see him. He and his brother are like sons to me. You have no idea the tragedy these boys have endured. They need me there to support them. They don't have anyone else."

"I'm sorry, sir..."

_Holy Hell! Is that the extent of this woman's vocabulary?_

"...Mr. Townsend's physician has ordered that he not have any visitors."

"What?!" Bobby's face was reddening and he turned and pointed towards the closed door of Sam's room. "You could at least go in there and have his brother come out to talk with me."

"I could," the nurse bit off condescendingly, "...if he were here, but he's not. He left just minutes after Sam was re-admitted here."

The meaning behind the nurse's words hit Bobby like a punch to the gut and a sudden sensation of nausea welled up in him. He knew from a lifetime of experiences that Dean would never leave Sam's side, especially if he'd taken a turn for the worse. Then again, Bobby remembered his growing sense of alarm at just how close Dean had come a few days back to falling apart because of Sam's condition. If Sam had taken a turn for the worse, it might just be enough to push Dean over the edge. In that case, there was no telling just what Dean might do. The feelings of unease that had been growing inside Bobby had now turned into a full-blown paranoia. Bobby decided the time for being nice had passed.

"God damn it, just tell me what the hell is going on! Better yet," Bobby growled as he pushed passed the nurse towards room 312, "I'll find out for myself!"

The nurse stepped into Bobby's path and waved the burly guards that were still stationed outside Sam's door towards her. "Chad, Brian...I need help over here!" Turning her attention once again towards Bobby she chastised, "Sir, you're going to have to leave. There are critically ill patients here and your outburst is endangering their recoveries. If you won't leave peacefully, Chad and Brian will _make_ you leave and you'll not be permitted to return."

The uniformed guards reached out and roughly grasped Bobby by each bicep and pushed towards the exit. Bobby jerked his arms free from their grasps with a hostile tug and a malevolent glare. Holding his hands up as if in surrender, he slowly backed towards the ICU doors. "Fine," he spit out, his voice imbued with a venomous tone. "I'm not getting any answers here, anyway."

Bobby quickly turned on his heels and hurried from the ICU. He scanned the waiting area and up and down each of the connecting hallways hoping that Dean would show himself. After several minutes without any sign of Dean, Bobby flipped open his cell phone and dialed Dean's number. Five long rings later Dean's phone picked up, "Hey, this is Dean. You know what to do at the tone...beep."

Bobby sighed when he reached the voicemail. Somehow he knew that would happen, that Dean would be in no mood to talk, but he'd hoped that, just this once, Dean would go against his incredibly predictable routines. "Dean, this is Bobby. I don't know what went down with Sam or why he's back in ICU, but they aren't letting me in to see him and they tell me you took off. I need you to call me before you go doing something stupid. So, please...just call me." Hanging up the call, Bobby made his way towards the hospital's parking lot.

Standing at the edge of the curb in front of the hospital entrance, Bobby scoured the parking area for the Impala. It didn't take long for him to locate the shining, black, classic muscle car sticking out like a sore thumb in a lot of otherwise mundane "Mom-mobiles" and farm-battered pick-up trucks. _Well, if the car's here at least I know he didn't go far._

Bobby ran a hand over his face as he desperately tried to think where Dean would have run. Coming up empty, he flipped his phone open once again and dialed. "Hey, Joshua...it's Bobby. Have you heard from Dean today? No, no...I don't know...I _hope_ he's OK. Sam's back in ICU, they're not letting me in to see him, they won't give me any information on him and they said Dean took off...Yeah, I know that's strange...Josh, if you hear from Dean, give me a call, OK? Thanks, buddy."

Snapping the phone shut again, and not having any other leads as to where to start his search, Bobby settled on making a sweep of the hospital first. With the car in the lot, it was probably a long shot that Dean had left the hospital grounds, not an impossibility, but certainly not likely. Heading back into the medical facility, Bobby turned toward the ICU. He'd start nosing around in the areas surrounding that unit and then fan out in a circular manner from there.

**ICU, Room 312**

Dr. McCune eyed the nurse critically. "I don't care what you hear or what you see, but you're going to follow orders and shut up about it or I'll be forced to alert the administration. You wouldn't want them to find out that Mrs. Kunkle's death was a direct result of a medication error you made and so deftly covered up, now would you?"

The nurse sheepishly shook her head. "Please don't," she pleaded. "They'll take my nursing license. I'm a single mom and I need my job."

"Then do as I ask," Dr. McCune barked. "I'm going to get what I want from this boy and I'll do whatever it takes to get it, even if it means pushing him to the brink. I want that EEG monitoring his brain wave activity continuously. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Alright, then. Let's get started."

Sam's eyes snapped open with a start. An acrid, ammonia smell filled his nostrils and burned at his sinuses until he gagged and coughed uncontrollably.

Dr. McCune moved the ammonia capsule smelling salts from under Sam's nose and leaned back. "Mr. Townsend...Mr. Townsend. Can you hear me? You passed out again."

Sam's head was reeling, desperate to comprehend the world around him and yet still drugged enough to make him feel as though he'd been on an all night bender with Jim, Jack, Jose and some freaky-dressed dude with the last name of Morgan. He was having trouble remembering where he was, but by the look of things through his heavy eyelids, he figured he was in a hospital somewhere. That assumption was further strengthened by the feel of wires snaking across his chest and the rhythmic beep, beep, beep of what he knew was the sound of a heart monitor.

Sam tried focusing his half-drunk eyes around the room, searching for the source of the voice. He was still feeling doped enough that the voice really wouldn't have mattered to him all that much except for its insistent tone. He attempted to clear his vision by rubbing at his eyes when he realized he was unable to get his hand more than a few inches off the bed. He tried again with the same results and then tried with the other arm. The sudden realization that he was bound, literally shackled to the bed, caused him to buck wildly at the restraints that encircled his wrists and ankles. A flash of pain along his left side and another in his left thigh from his still healing injuries caused him to wince badly and yelp in pain.

"Mr. Townsend, fighting is only going to make matters worse," the grey-haired physician consoled.

"Where am I? Why do you have me restrained?" Lifting his still swirling head from the pillow, Sam looked frantically around the room, feeling the tug of many small wires on his scalp. "Where's my brother?!"

"Now, Sam," Dr. McCune cooed as though he were talking to a young child. "We've been through all of this before. You're in the hospital. This isn't the first time you've awoken and been physically combative. We've had to restrain you to prevent you from hurting yourself further. You're still recovering from the injuries you sustained in a brawl."

"What?! What brawl?" Sam wished he could clear his whirling brain, wished he could remember, but try as he might, he couldn't seem to get his mind around what the man, who was obviously a physician, was telling him. "I don't remember any fight."

"'You're recovering from life-threatening injuries, Sam. Your memories are going to be jumbled, at best. You may _never_ recover some of them. You were brought to this hospital and we've been caring for you ever since."

_Ever since? Ever since?_

"What do you mean 'ever since'? How long have I been here?"

"You've been in a coma for three weeks now, Sam. We've had you on these machines, monitoring your heart rate, your breathing and your brain activity. You gave us quite a scare."

"Three weeks?! Wh-where's Dean? I want my brother."

Dr. McCune glanced quickly at his patient's astounding brain wave activity, but he wanted more, and he knew he could _get_ more, if only he pushed his patient far enough. He grasped Sam's left hand tenderly. "Sam...Sam, I'm sorry..."

Sam's eyes widened in fear. He'd had plenty of experience in hospitals throughout his life, not only for himself, his Dad and for Dean, but also waiting for news of friends, other hunters, when they'd been injured on jobs. Sam knew that tone, that tender embrace and those words could mean only one thing.

"I'm sorry, Sam, but Dean's...well, his injuries were just too severe. I'm sorry, but we just weren't able to save him."

Tears sprung to Sam's eyes and a lump the size of Texas took up residence in his throat. When he spoke next, his voice crackled with emotion. "Tell me what happened. I've got to know what happened."

"We'll go through all that later, Sam. I think it would be best for you to rest now," the aging doctor soothed.

"No! I don't want to rest," Sam screamed as he pushed his body forward and strained against the thick leather restraints that bound him securely to his bed. "I can't rest...I need to know what happened to my brother."

Dr. McCune sighed forlornly. "OK, Sam...but this is against my better judgment."

Sam stopped fighting against the restraints and settled his battered body back against the bed, the pull on his left side causing a low groan to escape his lips. Sam's eyes held the gaze of the medic with a fierce intensity while he paused, gathering himself to convincingly lie to the injured man before him. He had seen the results of Sam's first EEG done under traditional, standard procedure and they were unusual and amazing enough in their own right. If he was going to push the young man's mind to the brink, if he was going to get the results that he just _knew _he could get, the results that would rock the scientific world, set it on its ear and make a name for himself, he would have to be cruel, cunning and, most of all, convincing.

Dr. McCune sighed for effect. In order to keep the boy's trust and have him believe the lies he was about to tell him, Sam Townsend had to have no reason to doubt the doctor's compassion and honesty. "Now keep in mind, Sam, I can only tell you what we've managed to piece together from what the paramedics on the scene have said and from what little you were able to tell us when they brought you in."

Sam swallowed hard, nodding his head slightly but not saying a word.

"It seems you and your brother visited one of our local bars and...how should I put this? You...fell in with the wrong crowd. One thing lead to another until a full-scale barroom brawl ensued and eventually tumbled into the alley behind the bar. From what we can tell, you were up against a pretty sizable number of guys and they'd pummeled you pretty badly by the time your brother got to you. When he attempted to give you aid, you mistook him for one of your attackers and..."

"And what?" Sam questioned angrily. _Why can't this guy just spit out the story? Why is he being so evasive? What could be so bad that he keeps starting and stopping like that?_

"Sam, I really don't think you should hear this right now," Dr. McCune purred with false sincerity.

"Just tell me! I need to know what happened to my brother." Sam's turbulent emotions caused his voice to falter and crack as tears glistened at the corners of his eyes.

"You were beaten so badly you weren't thinking straight. It really wasn't your fault, Sam."

What wasn't my fault? Damn it, just tell me!" Sam strained against his bonds again, his fear and anger rushing adrenalin throughout his system.

"You didn't realize it was Dean...you thought he was one of the thugs that was beating you and you...you..." Dr. McCune took a large, I-wish-I-didn't-have-to-tell-you-this breath and continued. "You thought you were defending yourself against your attackers and you stabbed Dean in the chest." Dr. McCune's words came out in a rush, as though he really hadn't wanted Sam to hear them and he stood silently watching Sam for any hint that he wasn't believing the lies that were being told to him. Any fears he had of being exposed were quickly washed away as he watched the color drain from his young patient's face.

The air around Sam suddenly became thick and an intense feeling of heat washed over Sam's body. He gulped in giant, heaving breaths of air as the uncontrollable swell of emotions crashed down on him. Tears tracked down his cheeks in torrents as he tried desperately to remember the events that Dr. McCune was telling him about. No matter how hard he tried, he was still unable to get his reeling, disoriented mind to cooperate.

A sudden, fiery, pounding throb pulsed behind Sam's eyes as the world around him begin to flicker and dance. As the undulating scenes slowed and focused, Sam stared into a narrow alleyway. Several battered dumpsters lined the red brick walls of the building, many adorned with graffiti images painted in multi-colored hues. A few of the lids stood partially open as the contents of the overflowing dumpsters threatened to spill out onto the ground. The single security light illuminating the alley glinted weakly off the puddles scattered across the pock-marked pavement.

Straining his eyes into his dimly lit surroundings, Sam caught the gleam of a metallic object twenty or thirty feet from him. Upon reaching the object, Sam bent to inspect it more closely and immediately recognized it as the talisman that Dean wore on a black leather cord around his neck. As he straightened, his eyes caught site of Dean's crumpled figure, silent and unmoving, partially obscured from view by a dumpster and a large pile of shipping pallets. Stark rivulets flowed across Dean's pale face from a gash on Dean's forehead, from his nose and from his lower lip. A broad swathe of crimson soaked the front of his T-shirt.

The scene before him began to blink and shudder as the vision ebbed and the world around Sam slowly began to come into focus again. A feeling of crushing guilt and desolation overtook Sam as he gazed up at the physician with empty, soulless eyes. Sam's lips parted in a whisper he didn't even realize he made, "I killed him. I killed my brother."

Dr. McCune stepped back and looked over the brainwave tracings. The expression that played across his face as he stared at the shocking results quickly turned into a menacing glare. He leaned close to the nurse and intentionally kept his voice low. "I want him sedated twenty-four, seven, just the way you've been doing. I'm not done with him yet." He held up the EEG results for the nurse to see. "I'm telling you, that boy's gonna earn me the Pulitzer Prize for Medicine."

**To be continued…**

* * *

**Secondary A/N:** I know this chapter might have been a bit confusing so I'll sum up the action. We've got Bobby not sure why Sam's back in ICU and unable to gain access to him; Dr. McCune, who's drugging and lying to Sam in order that he can push him far enough to get earth-shattering EEG results, fame and fortune; Dean who gets the doo-doo stomped out of him by the guards in an alleyway behind the hospital; and Sam, who has a vision of Dean beaten and with a large bloodstain on his shirt. Worst of all...because he's drugged, and doesn't know it, the poor boy believes what Dr. McCune has told him and thinks his vision is a confirmation that he killed his own brother by stabbing him in the chest. Don't ya just **_HATE_** that Dr. McCune??

**About the chapter title: **I chose "Crazed Institution" from the 1976 Jethro Tull album, "Too Old to Rock 'N' Roll: Too Young to Die!" because I thought it pretty much described the crazy, whacked-out behaviors of this hospital's doctors, nurses and guards.


	38. Of Wolf and Man

**Disclaimer: **If I owned them I probably wouldn't be inclined to share them...so, I suppose, it's a good thing I _don't_ own them.

**A/N: **I really had a hard time writing this chapter. I'm not sure why, but I did. There's no real action here, but I needed this chapter to move the story onward. I tried hard to show Dean's reluctance to reveal his hunter status while portraying Dr. Stevens drive to know more about the boys and their connection to John. Hopefully, Stevens doesn't come off as obnoxious...he just wants to help. I hope it all makes sense. The central portion in _italics_ is Dean remembering his conversation with Sam after he awoke in the ICU.

Read on...another mega-chapter awaits!

**From the previous chapter:**

_Brian's large hands clasped Dean by the upper arms and savagely hauled the shorter man to his feet. "Tough guy, huh? Let's see how tough you really are." Brian thrust Dean backwards into Chad, who pulled Dean's upper arms behind him and held him fast. An explosion of pain ripped across his abdomen as Brian's punches tore away suture after suture from Dean's healing abdominal wounds. Flashes of light crossed Dean's vision as Brian's beefy hand slammed into his nose, the crunch of shattered bone punctuating the ferocity of the blow. A merciless upper cut to Dean's jaw split his lip and brought darkness once again to Dean's world and he slumped helplessly in Chad's arms._

_"That's what I thought," Brian crowed. "You're not so tough now, are you, shithead."_

_Chad laughed menacingly and allowed Dean's brutalized body to slowly slide to the ground. Satisfied at their handiwork, both guards turned and headed back to their posts outside Sam's door._

* * *

**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

**Chapter 38: Of Wolf and Man**

The ER had been quiet and Dr. Stevens had taken full advantage of the lull in the action to slip out the side entrance near the ICU. Since the institution of the hospital's no smoking policy, he and his fellow smokers had found this small alleyway near the rear of the hospital to be a welcome port in the storm. They had found the area to be secluded enough for them to fly under the administration's radar, but still close enough to several departments that staff could quickly and easily slip out for a quick drag and back in again before they were missed. Even so, many of the staff took extra precaution to avoid detection, usually by ducking between the dumpsters.

Dr. Stevens had staked out his claim between the first and second dumpsters, a place where an upturned bucket took on the job of "stool" so that the physician could kick up his tired feet, sink back against the building and savor the sweet taste and aroma of his favorite brand of cigarettes, all while catching the cool breezes that wafted their way around the end of the building. There wasn't much about England that Dr. Stevens missed all that much, but his cigarettes were a different story. None of the American cigarette brands seemed to satisfy him like the Lambert & Butler cigarettes he still had shipped in special from the UK.

The doctor made his way to his favorite spot, slunk down on his bucket-stool and elevated his feet by balancing the heel of one foot against the side of the first dumpster and crossing the other leg over. He brought his lighter up, taking a long drag until the end of the cigarette began to glow a vibrant orange and a small tendril of aromatic smoke snaked upward. Leaning his head tiredly back against the red bricks of the building, he let out a satisfied sigh of relaxation and closed his eyes briefly, drinking in the quiet atmosphere.

As he opened his eyes, a small metal object attached to a cord caught Dr. Stevens' eye as it lay off to the side of the alleyway. The unusual shape and character of the object piqued his interest and he rose from his perch and crossed the narrow space. He bent and retrieved the item, curling the leather cord around his fingers and holding it high so that he could better inspect it.

The medic knew he'd seen the pendant somewhere before but he just couldn't put his finger on where. As he slipped the necklace into the pocket of his lab coat he heard a muffled groan from behind the third dumpster. This wouldn't be the first time he'd encountered a homeless person in this alley. It also wouldn't be the first time he'd run into some drug-seeking crazy who was rummaging through the hospital's dumpsters in hopes of scoring even the smallest of hits.

Dr. Stevens turned and moved back towards the row of dumpsters, slowly working his way from one to the next. The last thing he wanted to do was startle an already jumpy and potentially dangerous addict willing to do anything in their desperation to get a fix. As he neared the third dumpster the physician could hear more soft moans and some muffled movement.

"Who's there? Come on out. I'm not going to hurt you," Dr. Stevens called out as he grabbed a stray piece of wood from one of the nearby pallets to use as a club should he find the need to defend himself.

Not receiving a reply, the medic raised the wood as though he were a major leaguer at bat in the World Series and stepped quickly and quietly around the end of the dumpster. Dr. Stevens immediately dropped his weapon to his side and stared dumbfounded at what lay before him.

"Dean? What in God's name happened to you?" Dr. Stevens tossed the wooden plank aside and worked at moving the pallets in order that he could get better access to Dean as he assessed his injuries.

Splashes of blood coated nearly every surface near the young man; the side of the dumpster, the wooden pallets and the pavement. Most of it, though, was on the young man himself. Trails of blood tracked across his rugged features from a gash near his hairline, as more of it flowed from the boy's obviously broken nose. Deep shades of indigo had already started to form across the bridge and under each eye and his lower lip was open and bleeding. A large area of blood soaked the man's t-shirt from chest to hem, leaving Dr. Stevens to assume that the sutures he'd placed in Dean's abdominal lacerations just days ago had probably seen better days.

"Dean, I'm going to go get some help. We need to..."

"No." Considering the beating he'd obviously taken, the strength of Dean's voice surprised Dr. Stevens. Then again, if he was right, and he was pretty certain he was, if this young man and his brother were, indeed, John Winchester's boys, they had most definitely inherited their old man's fortitude. "Just help me up."

"OK. But I'm still taking you back to the ER so I can check you out. I'd be willing to stake my life on it that you're abdomen's going to need another suture job."

"Whatever," Dean grumbled. He really didn't want to waste time arguing when he had more important things to take care of. He just wanted to get himself put back together enough to get Sam and get as far from this hellhole of a hospital as he could.

Dr. Stevens extended his hand and gingerly pulled Dean to a standing position, placing his other hand on Dean's shoulder to steady him as the young hunter fought to quiet the churning nausea in his gut and maintain his precarious purchase on balance. Dean indicated with a slight nod of his head that he was ready to go and the pair slowly progressed back into the hospital through the private entrance.

"Care to tell me just what's going on here, Dean?" The physician fought hard to keep his growing irritation at being kept in the dark from entering into his tone of voice. "I know you're not telling me everything."

"Nothing to tell," Dean huffed.

"Yeah, I can see that," Dr. Stevens replied with a sarcastic edge.

Halfway to the ER, Dean realized he couldn't afford to take the chance of the security guards, Chad and Brian, seeing him as they passed the ICU and he stopped suddenly. "Not past ICU. Some place private," he slurred over his swollen and bloodied lip.

"Why can't you go past ICU? Tell me what's going on."

"Alright. What's going on is that I'm not getting checked if we go past ICU."

"That's not an answer," Dr. Stevens complained.

"Yeah, well, it's the best one you're gonna get."

"OK, come on. The on-call room's just around the corner. You can wait there while I get some supplies from the ER."

Dr. Stevens settled Dean uncomfortably on the bed of the on-call room, threw a quick, "Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back," over his shoulder and disappeared, pulling the door tightly shut behind him.

**_snsnsnsnsnsnsn_**

Bobby had finished his sweep of the first floor of the hospital without any signs of Dean and had argued with himself as to what his next move should be. As he saw it, there were two choices - continue canvassing each successive floor before moving on to a search of the grounds, or reverse the process and start with the grounds first. After several minutes of careful deliberation, Bobby decided to search the area immediately around the hospital first. Dean had known Sam was moved from room 514 back to the ICU, the rather disagreeable ICU staff having even admitted that he had been at the ICU at one point. Logically, Bobby reasoned, there would be no reason for Dean to have returned to any of the upper floors...or, at least, that's what the older hunter was hoping.

As he made his way back towards the main entrance of the hospital, Bobby pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed yet again. The previous efforts to reach Dean by phone had been completely fruitless, but his years of experience as a hunter had taught him that it was best to leave no stone unturned, even if it meant turning it time and time again.

**_snsnsnsnsnsnsn_**

Dr. Stevens had returned with packages of gauze, suture thread, rolls of tape, several vials and syringes and some instruments wrapped in clear plastic peel-packs and deposited them on the small table next to the bed. He had just finished getting a proper look at his young patient and he silently prayed that the ER would stay quiet long enough for him to do what needed to be done for him...or, rather, what the boy would _let_ him do. Dean had already nixed the idea of doing anything more than letting the British physician clean him up, suture the gashes on his forehead and lip and re-close the wounds that had opened on his abdomen. Although the young man had continued to refuse Dr. Stevens' continued probing, he was certain this was only another chapter in a long and complicated story.

The amount of blood gracing the front of Dean's t-shirt had initially had the medic concerned for the condition of Dean's previously sutured abdominal lacerations. But after getting a good look at them, it was obvious that the large stain on the shirt probably had more to do with the bleeding from the broken nose and busted lip than from the belly wounds. It had taken a good twenty minutes of careful repair work but Dr. Stevens had been satisfied with the finished product and its chances for proper healing.

The next repair had been to Dean's lower lip and, because of the swelling, had required sutures to both the surface and the underlying tissues in order to pull it together without stressing the sutures too much. He was just preparing to move on to stitching the wound on the left side of Dean's forehead when the hunter's phone began jangling out the strains of this week's favored classic rock ringtone.

Dean fished the phone from his left rear pocket, slid the cover open and brought it up to his right ear. The swelling of his lip and residual numbness from the Novocaine garbled his speech almost beyond comprehension. "Ha-o?"

"Dean," Bobby shouted. "Holy Christ, where have you been? I've been trying to reach you for more than two hours."

Dean snuffled in through his swollen and congested nose, trying in vain to alleviate some of the stuffiness in the hopes that it would help clear his speech a bit. "I wan inna bi a twa-ble," Dean mumbled out trying hard, but failing, to enunciate 'I ran into a bit of trouble' in a manner that could be understood.

Bobby could hear the slurred quality of Dean's speech as well as the wheezy whistling of his breathing. The fact that Dean didn't appear to be making any sense didn't do much to quash the feelings of dread that were quickly washing over him. True enough, alcohol could do a heck of a lot of strange things to people's speech, but this was Dean Winchester he was talking to here. Dean could drink men twice his size under the table without even appearing so much as buzzed, so there was no way that he could have ingested enough alcohol in the past hour or so to be too drunk to be understood. That left only one thing - somehow, somewhere, Dean had gotten himself hurt and, judging by his slurred speech, a damn fine concussion was probably Dean's consolation prize.

_Damn, that boy can find trouble without even trying._

"Dean, I need you to stay awake. I need you to keep talking to me. Try to let me know where you are." Bobby tried desperately to keep panic from edging into his voice. Dean's speech was distorted enough as it was and getting him worked up was only going to make it harder for the boy to communicate.

"Oh, fa Chist sa, Obby. I ja ha a us-sed ip..."

Before Dean could go on, Bobby interrupted him. "That's it Dean. Keep talking to me. Can you tell me where you are?"

Bobby could hear a deep, sharp intake of breath and a long sigh, but no further words came. "Dean? Dean?!"

"Hello?"

"Who's this," Bobby demanded at the unfamiliar voice on Dean's phone. "And why do you have Dean's phone? What did you do to him?"

"Whoa, take it easy there, pal," Dr. Stevens stammered out. "Dean got roughed up a bit and can't speak too well right now..."

"Is he OK? Where is he?"

"He's with me in the ER on-call room. I'm working on getting him cleaned up some. If you come in the ER entrance and make a left back that hallway, make a right at the next one and it's the last room on the right."

**_snsnsnsnsnsnsn_**

The voice on the other end of the line had said that Dean had "gotten roughed up a bit". What Bobby saw certainly seemed to put that particular statement in the category of 'understatement'. Dean had one arm tenderly holding a large pack of ice to his puffy, discolored face while the other arm was slung protectively across his abdomen as he balanced on the edge of the bed. The tails of black suture material stuck out prominently as Dean gently chewed on his lower lip in an effort to finish clearing the little bit of numbness that remained there.

"Sweet Jesus, Dean. Did you step in front of a train?" Bobby's eyes roamed the young man looking for hints of injuries that Dean had yet to confess to.

"I ran into the security guards' fists. We've got to get to Sam, Bobby. They forced me out of his room. When I fought back..." Dean lifted both hands wide giving Bobby full view of the damage that had been done. "Bobby," Dean whimpered, his hazel eyes filled with fear, "I don't know what they're doing to Sammy."

"Yeah, I couldn't get anywhere near him either," Bobby informed Dean. "The staff wouldn't let me in to see him and when I tried forcing my way in, two big security guys got up in my face. I suppose they were the guards that, um, 'convinced' you to leave Sam. We've got to get Sam out of there somehow."

"I don't see how we're going to do it with Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dumber stationed outside his door. We step one foot in those doors and, well..." Dean allowed his voice to trail off dejectedly.

"Look, now might not be the right time to push this," Dr. Stevens interrupted heatedly, "but after everything I've been involved in with you and your brother, I think I deserve to know what's going on...who you really are!"

The physician glared from Dean to Bobby and back again. When no answer was forthcoming, he continued. "If you're really who you say you are, then, fine. But, as sure as I'm standing here, I know there's a lot more to your story than what you're telling me and, somehow John Winchester's involved."

Bobby was surprised at the mention of his old friend's name but hid the emotion quickly. Like Dean, he was in no mood to go revealing more about themselves than need be. John had gained himself quite the reputation over the years, with hunters and demons alike, and more than one demon had dropped his name in an effort to get close to other hunters or even John's boys, themselves. And a man with John's "style" had an innate ability to piss off even those people that were considered allies, so it was best to admit nothing.

"I'm not sure what you're talking about," Bobby denied, "but we're not looking for more trouble. I'm just interested in making certain Dean and Sam are OK and then getting the hell outta this God forsaken nightmare you call a hospital."

The medic had expected yet another denial and the one he'd just received caused him to exhale with an exasperated sigh. He pushed the sleeve of his scrub shirt up and scratched at his right shoulder as he began to argue once again. "I just really think…"

The physician's words were clipped off violently as Dean dropped his ice pack to the bed and forcibly grabbed the Brit's right arm, spinning him quickly and shoving his shirt sleeve high to get a better look at his right bicep.

_"I had a dream he was here, Dean." Sam's voice was barely above a whisper._

_"Who," Dean queried. "The Demon?"_

_Sam looked up at Dean with moist, remorseful eyes. Dean could see the emotional pain etched on Sam's face. "No, it wasn't the Demon. I had a dream Dad was here...he told me I had to be ready, that evil was coming."_

_"It was just a dream, Sam," Dean soothed. "Nothing bad's gonna happen to you as long as I'm around."_

_Sam stared off absently as he remembered all that John had said. "He told me I needed to trust in the chained dragon." Sam looked up with worried eyes. "But I don't know what that means."_

_"It doesn't mean anything, Sammy. It was just a dream. OK?"_

"Dean, what is it?" Bobby's eyes flashed from Dean to the tattoo emblazoned on the physician's right bicep.

"Trust the chained dragon," Dean whispered. "Oh my God, it _wasn't_ a dream. He said we should trust the chained dragon."

"Who?" Dr. Stevens and Bobby had asked the question simultaneously.

"Dad. Sammy said Dad came to him and told him to trust the chained dragon. That's why he was so upset when he woke up that night. I told him it was just a dream." Dean peered up at the older hunter with troubled, searching eyes. "Dad's dead, Bobby...and we salted and burned. How could it have been anything _but_ a dream?"

"Wh-when was this?" Dr. Stevens' voice quivered with uncertainty.

Dean looked up suddenly, a questioning gaze on his face.

The Englishman rephrased his question. "When did Sam say your Dad came to him?"

"Last Tuesday night, when Sam woke up."

An incredulous look crossed the doctor's face. "Bloody hell!"

Dean still had a firm hold of the medic's right upper arm and stared once again at the bold tattoo he found there. Before Dean's eyes was a winged serpent, fierce, blazing eyes, talons raking through the air, tongue darting from its open mouth and a golden chain secured around it's neck...a chained dragon.

"We're supposed to trust him, Bobby. _Dad_ wants us to trust him."

**_snsnsnsnsnsnsn_**

"I _knew_ you two had to be John's boys," the Brit proclaimed. "Hell, there was only one man on earth that could raise two sons like you and Sam, and that was John Winchester. Toughest old git I ever met."

After seeing the doctor's tattoo, Dean had finally admitted that he and Sam were John's sons. But John had deeply ingrained in Dean the need to keep family information close to the chest and he was reluctant to reveal too much, too soon and had admitted nothing more.

"I'd be willing to bet," Dr. Stevens guessed, "that you're not about to tell me any details until you're sure you can trust me. John would be proud. It's a sign of a good hunter."

Dean's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but neither he nor Bobby said anything.

"Yeah, I know all about that. I may be British, but the supernatural doesn't stop at the American borders, you know." The doctor sighed, knowing that he was going to have to tell his story before he could begin to gain the trust of the two hunters.

"It started back when I was at university. The lads and I went pub crawling until we got pretty well sloshed. On the way home, something...some animal...a dog...came charging out of the woods at us. I took a hit across my back with its claws and went down. It seemed set on butchering me, but for some reason, when it saw my mates turn and start legging it, the damned thing forgot all about me and went after them. I got a good look at it as it chased after them and I'd never seen a dog so large and powerful. But there was something different about it, something that didn't look like a regular dog. I dragged myself off into a thicket and hid until dawn. When I finally crawled back out..."

Dr. Stevens swallowed thickly recalling the events as though they had happened just yesterday. "When I finally crawled back out, my chums were dead...mutilated, almost beyond recognition. I knew I was a bit squiffy, but I also knew what I saw. And no matter how much I'd had to drink, I knew that what I saw wasn't the product of an inebriated imagination. Only problem was, I couldn't get anyone to believe me...until I met my first hunter. He introduced me to the hunter's world and I learned that what had attacked us that night was a werewolf. I soaked up every bit of werewolf lore and hunting techniques from him that I could and eventually helped form a loose confederation of hunters, a brotherhood of sorts, that was based out of a pub...The Dragon's Lair...and we hunted werewolves exclusively. The tattoos identified members of the brotherhood." A small chuckle rumbled in Dr. Stevens' throat as old memories returned. "I suppose we weren't too original. We lifted the tattoo's design directly from the pub's sign."

"What brought you to the States? Sounds like you had a pretty lucrative gig in England." Bobby had been hunting for quite a while and he wasn't about to go trusting someone without more information. Blatantly throwing your trust out to just anyone was a sure fire way to stumble into a demon's trap or double cross.

A dark shadow crossed over the physician's face and a look of despair flashed in his eyes. "We'd been hammering hard at werewolf dens all across the UK…and had been pretty successful. Successful enough, in fact, that we were getting a reputation among the packs. We were seen as a real threat…and that's when things got a bit dodgy. A pack of six werewolves and their pups took up residence in a local park. For months, individual hunters tried unsuccessfully to stop their rampage through the community. The Dragon's Lair hunters decided the only way this pack was going down was to launch an offensive with a small army of hunters working as a unit. We planned in secret for weeks but, somehow, the pack was alerted to our plans and by the time we attacked, they'd just managed to clear out."

Tears sprung to the man's eyes and threatened to wash down his cheeks. "While we were off hunting for them, the werewolves doubled back and murdered our families. We had left our families totally open...completely unprotected...and they paid for our mistakes with their lives. As soon as I realized that the hunt had gone sideways, I rushed home. As long as I live, I'll never forget what I saw. Blood and carnage was everywhere. My three, precious little babies were dead and my wife...she was barely alive. There was nothing I could do but sit and watch her struggle for her last breaths as she died cradled in my arms. After that, I couldn't bear to stay in England. I moved to the States, swore I'd never hunt again and tried to start over. I remarried and we have two wonderful sons. I've never told any of them how I really lost my first wife and kids. All I've ever said was that it was a horrible accident."

The room fell eerily quiet as each hunter considered the often tragic consequences of their battle against the dark forces of the world and paid a silent homage to those that had fallen because of it. Each of them knew that their lives as hunters put them at great risk and it was a risk that they willingly accepted. The difficult parts to reconcile were the innocent people that more than occasionally got caught in the cross-fire, especially when those innocents were children.

"If you never hunted again...," Dean asked softly, "...how is it that you knew my Dad?"

Dr. Stevens chuckled derisively as a wry smile crept onto his face. "I hadn't been in the States very long. The wounds over losing my family were still pretty raw and I spent most of my time beating myself up over the fact that I should have been there, should have protected my family, should have figured things out faster and gotten to them sooner. I'd gotten myself pretty plastered one night. My head was everywhere but on what was going on around me, otherwise I would have recognized the signs. But I was too busy obsessing over my failure for me to notice anything. Next thing I know, this flash of fur and claws and snapping teeth comes out of the bushes at me. He got one good swipe at me before John came in, guns blazing like some frickin' larger-than-life, blow-'em-all-to-Hell 'John Wayne' type, and pumped that werewolf so full of rounds his carcass held more silver than Grandma's tea service. John saved my life that night. Once he found out that I was an ex-hunter, he wanted me to rejoin the fight, but I just couldn't...I'd lost my nerve. I swore someday I'd find a way to pay him back for what he did for me, but I never found a way. I tried to keep track of him but, like every good hunter, he eventually disappeared from the radar and I never heard from him again...until the other night."

"What do you mean, 'until the other night'?" Dean and Bobby were staring at the doctor with hardened looks.

"Last Tuesday," the medic explained, "…the night Sam woke up…I was sleeping right here…in this room. I woke up suddenly with a feeling there was someone here with me. That's when John walked out of the shadows. At the time, I wasn't sure what he was talking about, but he just kept thanking me about his boys before he literally disappeared. It was all I could think about for days on end."

Dean nodded his head in understanding. "And that's when you started putting things together…figured Sam and I were the boys he was talking about."

The Brit smiled broadly. "Well, yeah, I mean, everything fit. Stories that didn't match up, unusual injuries…" He reached into the pocket of his lab coat, pulled Dean's necklace out and handed it to him. "…a taste for 'unique' and powerful amulets and, of course, the fact that the two of you are just like your old man…more tenacious than a Pit Bull, tough as any Leatherneck-Jarhead-Marine and too damned strong-willed and hard-headed for your own good."

Bobby laughed openly and rested one of his large, calloused hands on Dean's right shoulder. "I hate to say it, boy, but he's got your number…and it's obvious he really _did_ know your old man. I think it's time we come clean."

The doctor sighed, regret-filled eyes locking with Dean's hazel orbs. "I _did _know him, Dean, and I owe him so much. I wanted to re-pay him. But now he's gone...and I've lost my chance."

"No you didn't," Dean asserted firmly, "you helped me...and you saved Sammy. You couldn't have paid him back any better way than that."

"It's my job," the doctor lamented. "I would have done that for anyone, it's what I do. I have to find another way to pay him back, Dean. I _need_ to re-pay him."

Dean nodded in understanding. "You do know what world you're headed back into, right? Can you handle that? I mean, your family doesn't know the 'real' you."

"Yeah, I know…and I'm still in. If you and Sam need my help, I'll do what I can."

**To be continued...**

* * *

**About the chapter title: **"Of Wolf and Man" is a track on Metallica's self-titled 1991 album, their fifth one, and is often known as "The Black Album". The song is about lycanthropy – the transformation of man to wolf – and fit well with Larry Stevens' past history with werewolves. I had also considered another track from this album for the chapter title, "My Friend of Misery", since Dean, Larry and Bobby have all felt the misery of losing loved ones to their war with evil. 


	39. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds

**Disclaimer: **All standard disclaimers apply.

**A/N: **Please accept my sincerest apologies for the **_incredibly_** long delay in getting you your next update. I won't bore you with any of the details, but let it suffice to say that this is a very busy time of year on our farm and finding the time to live my fantasy life with Sam and Dean has been next to impossible. I ended up splitting (darn it!) what I thought would be one chapter, into two because of its length. I hate to prolong this story more than necessary but I feel my loyal readers deserve the best, most descriptive, action-packed story I can produce. So, in an effort to not write crap…chapter count be damned!!!

**The road so far: **The boys attempt to lie low and take it easy by vacationing in a rural town, but things go awry when Dean seduces a woman who turn out to be Sekhmet, an Egyptian goddess out for vengeance. With the help of long-time friend, Bobby, the boys vanquish the goddess but Sam ends up paying a heavy price. The effects of a frightening vision while undergoing a test has Sam drawing the attention of the less than well meaning Dr. McCune who has Dean beaten up, Bobby barred from ICU and Sam held captive on the unit enduring God only knows what. Now it's up to Dean, Bobby and their new friend, British ex-hunter, Dr. Larry Stevens, to rescue Sam before it's too late.

* * *

**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

**Chapter 39: Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds**

**ER On-call Room**

**8:13 PM**

"So what did you say this thing was again, Larry?" Dean stared intently at the small electronic device Dr. Stevens had placed on the desk next to a portable heart monitor enclosed in a padded, protective carrying case. From what Larry had told them, that one diminutive and unpretentious device was the key to giving them the time they needed to get Sam from the ICU and as far from Dr. McCune as possible. And if what Larry was telling them, that that device could help to ensure Sam's safety and end whatever hell McCune was putting him through, then Dean would pour himself into finding everything out about it that he could.

"It's a heart rhythm simulator. We use them as training aides for our paramedics and Critical Care nurses," Larry explained with the wide-eyed enthusiasm of a young boy showing off his new radio-controlled race car to his pals. He'd willingly given up hunting years ago, walking away without another glance back after the tragic and painful deaths of his wife and kids at the hands of a werewolf pack he and his hunter friends had been trailing. In the intervening years, Larry had done his best to forget about his hunter's past and move on, start a new life, a life that didn't involve monsters, mayhem and some seriously kick-ass munitions. In all honesty, he hadn't missed any of it, that is, until the Winchester boys bulldozed their way into his life and inadvertently dragged him back into the fight. Truth be told, though, the longer Larry was around these boys he found himself with a growing ache in his soul, a fire he felt in the pit of his stomach that burned into him a renewed desire for fighting the good fight, for helping to send as many evil sons of bitches back to hell as he could.

Dean eyed the box with a disbelieving glare. There was no way that totally unimpressive, primitive looking device was going to play as much of a pivotal role in springing his baby brother from this hell hole as Larry would like them to think. Yeah, he supposed his homemade EMF meter didn't look as slick and sophisticated as a professionally built one. Heck, Sam had even said as much when they investigated those suspicious plane crashes for their Dad's friend and found a demon to be at the root of the problem. Dean had felt rather offended at Sam's disparaging of his creation, but now that he was on the other side of that scenario he could totally see where Sam had been coming from.

"A heart rhythm simulator, huh? No offense Larry, but we're not looking to be candy stripers. And anyway, it looks like one of the electric fence chargers that Gordy has back at the farm."

A laugh escaped from Larry as he quietly shook his head in amusement, a warm grin spreading across his face. Somehow, Larry mused, Dean always seemed to quickly boil things down to the barest of nitty-gritty's with a style that was uniquely Dean Winchester.

"Actually, Dean, you're not too far off the mark," Larry acquiesced as he pulled a cord with four color-coded wires from the pocket of the padded carrying case, plugged it into the portable heart monitor and clicked circular patches into the snaps at the end of each wire. "Take off your shirts and I'll show you."

Despite the injuries that Dean had suffered at the hands of Chad and Brian, the two troglodytes that called themselves security guards, the fact that the trio was actively working on scenarios to rescue Sam had brought Dean back to full snark mode. Grabbing the edges of his loosely hanging button-down shirt, he drew them demurely around his torso while flashing Larry a shy, slightly shocked look.

"I may be cheap, but I'm not easy."

"That'd be a first," Bobby muttered under his breath.

Dean shot the older hunter a pointed glare. "You say something, Bobby?"

"Huh? Uh, no," Bobby fumbled. "I just said 'That's gonna hurt'...you know...with your ribs...getting your shirts off is gonna hurt."

"Uh huh," Dean grunted, clearly not believing his friend's explanation as he grudgingly accepted Bobby's help in removing the articles of clothing.

After Dead had wrestle the shirts off, Larry applied each of the four circular patches to Dean's broad, muscular chest, one just under each collarbone and one high on each ribcage, the right side already mottled with shades of vivid rose and deep blue from the beating they'd taken earlier. Next, he turned the switch and the trio watched as the monitor sprung to life, a luminescent dot skipping across the tiny monitor screen in time with Dean's heartbeat.

"That's your heart rhythm," Larry explained. "What you're seeing is actually the electrical activity in your heart tissue that causes it to contract and relax to pump blood. The spikes you see would be closer together or farther apart depending on how fast or slow your heart was beating. The shape of the peaks and valleys you see can appear different depending on your stress level, your activity level, the amount of caffeine you consume or any heart problems you have."

Reaching over, Dr. Stevens pulled the plug from the monitor and inserted the one from the rhythm simulator. He toggled the simulator's switch and stood back with a satisfied smile as Dean and Bobby's eyes widened in awe as they watched a nearly identical tracing race by on the monitor's screen. With just a few turns of a knob or push of a button, the monitor screen revealed seamless changes to a tracing with closely spaced spikes, then to a tracing of a spike trailed by a few wide hills and valleys, followed by another spike and then more wide hills and valleys, and then once more back to the tracing that mimicked Dean's.

"It sends out an electrical current, much like the electric fence charger you mentioned, and the heart monitor can't distinguish it from the electrical activity of the human heart. Because the simulator's computer is completely programmable to make whatever spontaneous changes you want," Dr. Stevens went on, "it's extremely life-like. We use it to teach our nurses and paramedics how to appropriately identify and respond to heart rhythms as though they had a live patient in front of them. It's really proven helpful in sharpening skills without endangering live patients."

From the outset, the trio had acknowledged that getting to Sam wouldn't be the most difficult part. Hell, being a physician, and the one that had cared for Sam in the ER the day Sam, Dean and Bobby had finally wasted Sekhmet, Dr. Stevens practically had a carte blanche to waltz right into Sam's ICU room. No, getting to his bedside wouldn't be the hardest part. The hardest part would be spiriting Sam away from the prying invasiveness of the monitors without someone taking notice. Just going in and popping Sam off all of those monitors would set off all sorts of alarms, both at Sam's bedside and at the nurses' station, certainly not a scenario that screamed stealth and inconspicuous escape.

But now it was all coming together in Dean's head and he smiled a wry grin at its devious simplicity. "So I gain entry to Sam's room, create enough diversion to make the switch from _his_ monitor to your pre-programmed rhythm thingie-ma-jigger without anyone noticing and then slip Sam quietly out the back."

"Not _you_, Dean...me," the Brit corrected. "It's pretty obvious they're not going to let you within a thousand yards of Sam. Me, on the other hand, I work here and no one's really going to question my presence in ICU. We need to sit tight for a few hours until the nightshift comes on. There'll be less staff on to get in the way or notice what we're up to. Anyway, it'll give you a chance to rest up. Bobby and I will handle this. You're in no condition to deal with things if this plan goes south."

"Like Hell," Dean snapped as he clambered from the bed, determined to prove he was up to the task. As he reached the apex of his height, the room pitched and yawed wildly. A thin sheen of sweat sprung immediately to Dean's forehead as the color quickly drained from his face. The more he attempted to force himself to focus, the more vehemently the room whirled and twisted in a sickly approximation of those ridiculous funhouse mirrors Sam loved so as a child.

John had always taught his boys to push their way through their pain, admonishing anything that hinted at weakness. Dean could hear the words echoing through his head that John had uttered to him when he was just thirteen. That hunt had gone down all wrong from the start. They had set out thinking they were trailing one Rawhead when, in fact, there were two - a fact that presented itself when Dean became intimately acquainted with the beast's massive paw. The hunt ended with Dean's arm broken in two places and him whimpering in pain several times as he helped his father dig a pit where they could salt and burn the creature's remains. Thinking back, Dean wasn't sure which had hurt more, the arm that had broken from the behemoth's blow or his father's words. _"No more whimpering, son. You've got to push through your pain, boy, or it'll pull you under. Letting it pull you under makes you a pansy...and no boy of mine's gonna be a pansy."_

From that day forward, Dean had vowed he'd never let his pain show again and today, he decided, would be no different. Sammy was depending on him and, in Dean's mind, that left no question - no room for discussion, no room for argument. Sam needed him and that's all there was to it, end of story. He bit back his discomfort, pulled his veil of stoicism firmly into place and stepped away from the bed. Three steps later Dean found himself much closer to the floor than he could recall, Bobby's strong arms encircling him before he could wilt completely to the hard tiling.

Bobby hefted Dean's solid frame back onto the bed with a grunt. "Yeah, ok," Bobby snarled with a sarcastic tone. "Looks like John Winchester's 'Damn the torpedos, full speed ahead', 'pain let's you know you're alive' routine is working about as good as it always has. The damned fool never did realize that and, obviously, neither have you."

**snsnsnsnsn**

**ICU, Room 312**

**12:37 AM**

Dr. McCune had begun his "research" several hours ago. At least that's what _he _called. An ethics review board was likely to see it not so much as research, but more as immoral and abusive, if not even outright evil. He'd trashed the Hippocratic Oath from the outset. Somehow holding your patient captive against his will and filling his head with heartbreaking lies for the sole purpose of advancing your personal fame and fortune probably wasn't what Hippocrates had in mind when he stated, "First, do no harm." Those points not withstanding, Dr. McCune hadn't managed to improve his chances at remorseful redemption when he further stepped over the proverbial ethical line by continuing his mental manipulations of Sam Townsend under the effects of various medications.

But Dr. McCune had quickly grown bored with the conventional medications at hand and had looked for ever more "interesting" ways to push his extraordinary young patient. It wasn't that he wasn't pleased with the exceptional results he'd already achieved. Actually, it was quite the opposite. The abnormal brain function that he'd recorded thus far had only goaded Dr. McCune's frenzy for more and he was willing to do whatever it took to get the most incredible and noteworthy data he could. After all, how else could he possibly attain the professional esteem he coveted so rapaciously and so clearly deserved?

The intense pressure he had applied to Sam's fragile emotions had continued unabated, the lies he told the young man about his brother's "death" only getting more graphic and more accusing until the boy was practically hysterical with grief and guilt. But it was his decision to use d-lysergic acid diethylamide, known on the street as "acid" or "LSD", to push Sam even further that would have Dr. McCune crossing the invisible threshold that would catapult him the final few steps from misguided scientist to depraved reprobate.

The drug had been in Sam's system just a little over thirty minutes when Dr. McCune had started seeing the telltale signs that his young victim was spinning off into a world, a reality, known only to himself. Dr. McCune chuckled lightly to himself at how quickly the drug was taking Sam in its psychedelic grip. He never could have imagined it would be this easy; that the tall, strong, lanky young man before him would be such a lightweight, so easily affected by the drugs hallucinogenic effects. Dr. McCune knew that by badgering Sam and filling his mind with the unpleasant images of killing his brother before the drug exerted its control, he had done everything he possibly could to push Sam down the path to experiencing a bad trip. Now all he had to do was sit back, watch as Sam's world unraveled to horrifying and unspeakable depths and collect the brainwave data that would surely bring with it the accolades he lusted after.

**snsnsnsnsn**

**ER on-call room**

**2:13 AM**

"OK, guys, it looks like McCune's left for the night. It's time to get this show on the road." Larry announced. "Dean, you get the Impala, meet us at the supply deliveries entrance and keep it running. Bobby, give me ten minutes to nose around and get what info. I can and then do your thing."

Dean didn't like it, not even one bit. Never before, no matter how roughed up he'd been, had he had to take a back seat in the execution of a hunt...especially when it came to getting Sam's ass out of the trouble that seemed to constantly dog him. But Dean's protestations had ended abruptly when Bobby tossed out the possibility that Dean could further endanger Sam's life if his battered body wasn't able to cowboy up when the chips were down, no matter how much Dean wanted it to.

"Any last minute questions?"

Dean and Bobby both shook their heads 'no', each man silently visualizing the plan down to the smallest detail. If they were going to successfully get Sam and high tail it out of here safely, they couldn't afford to let anything go wrong.

"Alright, then, let's roll."

**snsnsnsnsn**

**ICU, Nurses' station**

**2:15 AM**

"You're here awfully late, Dr. Stevens," cooed the petite nurse. "I thought your shift ended a long time ago."

Larry didn't know the nurse very well, except that her name was Kelly and she was single-handedly supporting and raising a precocious four year old daughter. He'd met the energetic tyke when Kelly had brought her to the ER for evaluation after taking a nasty fall from a tree. The ER visit ended with nothing found other than a few scrapes and bruises and the child happily clutching a few lollipops and "I was brave" stickers in her pudgy hands.

"Yeah, it did. I've been catching up on signing off on a few charts. Plus, I wanted to stop over and see how Sam Townsend was doing. I oversaw his care in the ER after his accident. I hear he had a turn for the worse. How's he doing?"

"Not so good. You want to review his chart," Kelly queried, already handing Larry the bogus chart Dr. McCune had set up should anyone question what was going on with the patient in room 312.

Larry spent several minutes pouring over the information in the chart while covertly studying the current atmosphere of the ICU and the various locations of each staff member. "Sure looks like this Townsend kid's been having a real tough time," Larry fished around.

"Yeah," Kelly sighed and Larry thought he saw a flash of something cross the nurse's face. It passed as suddenly as it had come and left Larry wondering if what he had seen was simply a nurse's concern for her patient or guilt.

"Have you," Kelly began and then sputtered to a stop. "I mean, has a course of treatment ever seemed _wrong_ to you?"

"Well, sure. I've questioned whether I was doing everything I could for my patients," Larry soothed. "I think all doctors and nurses have a crisis of faith at some point. Why? Is there something specific you're talking about?"

Before Kelly could answer, the unit exploded in sound as a loud, horn-like alarm repeatedly blared the same sequence of blasts - two quick, one, then two quick. Kelly stood and consulted a chart at the rear of the ICU nurses' station and found the entry that corresponded with the alarm tones.

Larry glanced quickly at his watch. _Right on time, Bobby, _he thought.

"Two-one-two," Kelly stated matter-of-factly as the other two nurses on duty and the security guards from outside Sam's door assembled at the desk to get their assignments. "That means the fire's in the mechanical room just outside the ICU doors. Under no circumstances is anyone to attempt to open the mechanical room door until the fire department arrives. Let's keep this as contained as we can. I want each of the patients' doors closed, but make sure everyone is safe, stable and reassured. Any patients in imminent danger are to be evacuated and placed on telemetry so we can continue to monitor them from the central monitoring station. Go!"

"I can help," Larry asserted quickly as he rounded the desk and made a bee-line for the now unguarded room 312. Arriving at the door frame, he purposefully drew Kelly's attention to the haze billowing from the air ducts in Sam's room and the two adjoining ones. "You get them," Larry commanded as he pointed towards the other rooms. "I'll take care of evacuating him."

Larry grabbed a nearby gurney where he had clandestinely stowed the rhythm simulator and quickly pulled it into Sam's room. The condition of the boy startled and worried him, but he knew he had no time to waste and hurriedly got down to business dragging Sam's flushed, sweating body onto the waiting gurney. As he reached to position the simulator, he noticed that the young hunter's pupils appeared dilated and unfocused and goose pimples dotted his steamy flesh. _What in God's name has McCune been doing to you, _Larry wondered.

"Here, I brought you a telemetry...unit..." Kelly proclaimed, her voice trailing off when she spotted the simulator box on the gurney next to Sam. "What…are you…doing?"

* * *

**To be continued…Do not fear, next chapter to see more Limp!Sam and Sam POV!**

**About the chapter title: **"Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" was a John Lennon composition from the 1967 Grammy Awards Album of the Year, "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" by The Beatles. Over the years the title of the song has purportedly been attributed to everything from the title of a kindergarten drawing done by John's son, Julian, to an acronym for LSD (**L**ucy in the **S**ky with **D**iamonds). The latter explanation is entirely plausible as The Beatles were heavily experimenting with LSD during the recording of the Sgt. Pepper album.


	40. Run Like HellI Can't Drive 55

**Disclaimer: **Wish they were, but they're not…so I'm just having fun.

**A/N: **As always, this story is un-beta'd so all mistakes are mine and mine alone.

Dean's a bit fired up in this chapter so there are a few expletives thrown around, all well and surely earned by those on the receiving end, of course.

I hope this chapter isn't too confusing. Keep in mind, Sam thinks he really _did _kill Dean. It's probably going to seem like I was high on drugs when I wrote this chapter, but since it's pretty much from Sam's POV and he **_IS_** high on drugs…I guess it works out OK. If you have any questions, PM me and I'll try to clear them up.

Also, I'm thinking only one more chapter after this one to tie up those loose ends and give y'all some closure and the boys some well-earned rest!

**From the previous chapter: **

_"Two-one-two," Kelly stated matter-of-factly as the other two nurses on duty and the security guards from outside Sam's door assembled at the desk to get their assignments. "That means the fire's in the mechanical room just outside the ICU doors. Under no circumstances is anyone to attempt to open the mechanical room door until the fire department arrives. Let's keep this as contained as we can. I want each of the patients' doors closed, but make sure everyone is safe, stable and reassured. Any patients in imminent danger are to be evacuated and placed on telemetry so we can continue to monitor them from the central monitoring station. Go!"_

_"I can help," Larry asserted quickly as he rounded the desk and made a bee-line for the now unguarded room 312. Arriving at the door frame, he purposefully drew Kelly's attention to the haze billowing from the air ducts in Sam's room and the two adjoining ones. "You get them," Larry commanded as he pointed towards the other rooms. "I'll take care of evacuating him."_

_Larry grabbed a nearby gurney where he had clandestinely stowed the rhythm simulator and quickly pulled it into Sam's room. The condition of the boy startled and worried him, but he knew he had no time to waste and hurriedly got down to business dragging Sam's flushed, sweating body onto the waiting gurney. As he reached to position the simulator, he noticed that the young hunter's pupils appeared dilated and unfocused and goose pimples dotted his steamy flesh. What in God's name has McCune been doing to you, Larry wondered._

_"Here, I brought you a telemetry...unit..." Kelly proclaimed, her voice trailing off when she spotted the simulator box on the gurney next to Sam. "What…are you…doing?"_

**Chapter 40: Run Like Hell...I Can't Drive 55**

Larry stood stiffly, waiting, knowing that, despite the careful strategizing, this wrinkle in their plan was going to cause even more repercussions than Janet Jackson's wardrobe malfunction. If they couldn't get Sam away from Dr. McCune now, it was pretty certain they'd never get another chance.

"Kelly," Dr. Stevens began with an understanding tone. "_This_ is what you were hinting at earlier, isn't it? You know what McCune is doing to this boy isn't right…but he's twisting your arm somehow."

"I can't lose my job. What I did to Mrs. Kunkle was a mistake. I didn't mean to hurt anyone. I got distracted and…and…"

"You can't change what happened then, but you can help me keep McCune from continuing to hurt _him _now." Larry watched the conflicting emotions work their way across Kelly's face as she moved closer to the large red, panic button by the door. If she pressed it, staff from all corners of the hospital would flood the room and expose the trio's attempt to spirit Sam away. "Please, Kelly. McCune pressured you into doing the wrong thing. But now you have a chance to do the _right _thing. You help me save this boy and I'll do what I can to help you…I promise."

Kelly moved suddenly towards the button, but at the last moment bent and pulled a file folder from inside a nearby stand. Turning, she held it out towards Larry who accepted it with a questioning gaze.

"That's everything he's done to that poor boy…everything he's pumped him full of. But you've got to go. McCune stopped torturing him just long enough to grab a cup of coffee. He's gonna be back any minute."

"You won't regret this, Kelly. You're doing the right thing." Larry tossed the file onto the gurney between Sam's feet and began pushing the stretcher out the door. As he passed by, Kelly reached out and gently clasped Larry's arm. He looked up to see tears streaming down her face.

"He's gonna be OK, right?"

"We're making the right first step, and that's getting him away from McCune before he can do any more damage."

Kelly nodded quickly as a forced smile curled across her lips. "Please...just tell him...tell him...'I'm sorry'. I don't know how he could ever forgive me."

Larry grinned broadly, squeezing Kelly's hand in assurance. "Knowing Sam, he already has." At that, Larry pushed Sam's gurney from the room, through the ICU doors and urgently down the deserted hallway.

**snsnsnsnsnsn**

Sam had no idea how long it had been since Dr. McCune had administered the medication. He'd told him he was giving him something that would help settle his nerves, but Sam wasn't so sure about that. Despite the physician's compassionate manner, Sam saw something in the doctor's eyes that made him feel uneasy; uneasy enough that he'd tried refusing to take it, even clamping his mouth shut like some five year old child engrossed in a temper-tantrum. It was at that point that Dr. McCune's soothing and caring facade disappeared and he pinched Sam's nostrils shut with such force that his attempts to twist and roll his head away were completely unsuccessful. Sam's arms strained furiously against the thick leather restraints without success until, finally, his need for air forced him to open his mouth and draw in a series of gasping breaths. That's when McCune had roughly shoved the tiny squares of LSD-laced papers into Sam's mouth and forcibly clenched his jaw shut until the papers became soft with saliva and he was forced to swallow them.

It didn't seem to take long before Sam's head began to swim and his vision blurred, the nausea clawing up from his gut and threatening to expel what little he'd taken in food and fluids in the past day or so. He hadn't become concerned until he felt his heart start to race and thump wildly as though it was the piston of a runaway locomotive, pumping so fiercely he felt it was in danger of rupturing in his chest.

The room became unbearably hot and stifling, yet he could feel every tiny hair on his body stand at attention as goose pimples peppered his flesh and shivers wracked his body. Intense flashes of light burst into his vision as he heard Dr. McCune's accusing voice. _You did this, Sam. Dean's death is on your hands. You took your knife and drove it into your own brother's chest, not because you were defending yourself, but because you're thoughtless, petty and selfish. You didn't deserve a brother like Dean!_

_You're a selfish bastard! Do you know that, Sam? _Dean's words were echoing in, around and over those of Dr. McCune until the words became a jumbled cacophony of ear-splitting noise that screeched and grated against every cell in Sam's brain. The every day noises of the ICU - the monitors, the IV pumps and ventilators; the ringing telephones, the voices of the staff and the droning of the paging system added their own distorted riot of intense noises to the ever growing din in Sam's head.

As the blaring new sound of the fire alarm made its presence known, Sam felt a fiery tingling in his wrists and ankles as Larry gently removed the tight leather restraints that had bound him helplessly to his bed. His world suddenly shifted, swirling and floating, as Larry's strong arms pulled him to the gurney that then bulldozed its way through the ICU doors, rocketing as quickly down the corridor as Larry could push it without drawing too much attention.

The gurney steamrolled its way down the hallway, the rush of air across Sam's hypersensitive skin feeling as though the claws of every demon, every werewolf and every repulsive beast the brothers had ever encountered, were tearing at his flesh. He had been Cain to Dean's Abel. He had wielded a knife against his own brother; had plunged it deep into Dean's chest. Dr. McCune had told him as much. And now every creature of the netherworld, every creature of the darkness, was ripping at him, welcoming him to the domain of the damned while every cherubim and seraphim of the Heavens wailed in relentless demand for the atonement of his sin. Sam felt the ceiling...the sky...the universe moving and pulsating around him, pushing down on him as the angels' cries grew louder and the tribulation of his punishment grew ever more unbearable until he began thrashing frantically in an effort to release himself from his tormentors.

"Sam! It's OK. Please, just calm down," Larry pleaded as he firmly placed his hand on Sam's shoulder, gently urging him to lie still. "We're trying to get you..."

Larry's sentence hung unfinished as he struggled to control the crazily lurching stretcher as Sam's struggles intensified under his touch. Sam's arms flailed uncontrollably and a savage right cross caught Larry across the jaw, sending him immediately to the floor in a flaccid heap. His last conscious sight was Sam heaving himself from the gurney and blindly careening through the corridors, slamming unfeelingly into walls and anything that lay in his path.

**snsnsnsnsnsn**

Dean had had about all he could handle. Always a man of action, never taking well to sitting idly by, Dean pulled himself unsteadily from the Impala, more determined than ever that he was going to help get Sam away from here, to keep him safe. Stepping through the mortician's entrance, Dean flipped on his Mag-lite and made his way across the too-clean beige tile floor and past the shining autopsy tables with their high, slanted sides and fluid collection basins. _Damn, being the Housekeeping staff in here must suck out loud,_ Dean mused as he passed into the hallway that Larry had indicated as his and Sam's escape route.

Dean had only traveled about halfway down the hall, but even that short distance had already brought beads of sweat to his brow and he found himself, more than once, stopping to steady himself with a hand to the wall while cradling his abused ribs with the other. As he stood, yet again, waiting for his broken body to catch up with his mental determination, he could hear a loud commotion roiling out from a hallway slightly ahead and to the right of his position. The sounds of a garbled and panic-stricken voice, mixed oddly with heavy thuds and frightening crashes.

It seemed that time had inexplicably slowed down as Dean watched in surreal slow-motion as Sam darted from a connecting hallway, sideswiped a supply cart and slammed roughly into the opposite wall, losing his footing and scrabbling indiscriminately for any handhold he might find as his body slid slowly down the wall. As he threatened to pitch to one side, Dean rushed over and eased Sam to the floor, supporting him by grasping both upper arms.

"Hey…hey, Sammy. What's the matter? I've got you," Dean murmured reassuringly. "It's OK." Sam had a wild, glazed look to his eyes, the pupils as large as dinner plates, and multiple new bruises and scrapes from his frenzied stampede down several corridors. Sam drew back violently at the presence of his older brother and writhed desperately in an effort to regain his feet, a scream as primal as any Dean had ever heard rushing uncontrollably from Sam's lungs. Dean had never before seen the look of sheer terror and confusion on his baby brother's face that he was now seeing and the raging hysteria he saw there took Dean's breath away.

**snsnsnsnsnsn**

Sam felt a vice-like grip on his upper arms and looked up to find Dean hovering inches from him, his face a bulging and bloated phantasm of discordant colors that intermingled with the chorus of nightmarish burping and squelching noises that poured from Dean's lips. His skin was a deep gray, dotted here and there with a slimy sheen of green and black. His hands were twice their normal size, the bones sticking out through the plum-colored skin and boring into Sam's arms until they punctured his flesh, just as his knife had punctured Dean's. The gaping, bug-infested wound in his older brother's chest a glaring testament to the wickedness that had consumed Sam Winchester in the moment he slaughtered his brother.

Fear and guilt, deeper than any he'd ever felt before, enveloped Sam so tightly that he no longer possessed the desire to move, to breath, or even to live. Instead, he wanted nothing more than to disintegrate into nothingness and allowed the background hum of the universe to wash over him until it pushed him away; pushed him down into an abyss where his mind no longer need deal with what he'd done to Dean, the sin he'd committed, the nightmare of knowing he killed his own brother. He welcomed the feeling of the cosmos folding in on him and he relinquished control, his body and mind disconnecting from everything around him.

"Sammy! Oh, God," Dean stammered as he watched his brother slump limply like some rag doll; his eyes open, staring blankly and unfocused at nothing while thin silver ribbons of saliva drooled from the corner of his mouth. Dean's hand instinctively sought out Sam's pulse, a sigh of relief tinged with concern escaping his control as he felt it hammering under Sam's over-heated, sweaty skin in a bounding, too-rapid manner.

**snsnsnsnsnsn**

Bobby had set off the smoke detector in the mechanical room outside the ICU with a well-placed flick of Dean's lighter and then gone on to pump a convincing haze of "smoke" into the ICU by emptying the contents of two dry chemical fire extinguishers into the ventilation system that serviced the ICU. He had waited until he was sure the hallways would be clear of responding staff and then slipped away as quickly as he could.

Bobby's heavy boots pounded the hard tiles as he rounded the corner at a dead run to find an obviously dazed Larry blearily shaking the fog from his head. Sam's sudden violent outburst had taken the Brit by surprise, but the superhuman power behind his punch had floored him, literally.

"Larry," Bobby shouted. "What happened? Where's Sam?"

"I got my bell rung, that's what happened. Sam went berserk and cold-cocked me, then took off. I don't know where he is!"

Bobby extended his hand and helped his friend from the floor before taking off down the corridor, Larry following closely behind. Smears of blood and overturned linen and supply carts were the only clues they could use to track Sam's manic journey through the building.

**snsnsnsnsnsn**

Dean ignored the 'ding' of the nearby elevator's arrival until the doors slid open and Dr. McCune stepped into the hallway.

"You son of a bitch," Dean screamed as he launched himself into Dr. McCune's body, slamming him roughly against the wall. "What did you do to him? I swear I'm gonna kill you, you self-serving, sadistic bastard!"

In his rage, Dean had forgotten his pain, but as the rush of adrenaline waned the pudgy, grey-haired physician was able to get enough leverage to push the younger, more muscled man away. Dean staggered backwards but was able to right himself and stood wavering slightly, breaths coming in heavy puffs, as he glared at the older man with the unrestrained fury of a feral dog.

Dr. McCune laughed in disdain. "And just where do you think you're taking him? I'm certainly not about to let my future go walking out the door." The medic paused as he peered haughtily past Dean at Sam's sprawled and unresponsive form. "Then again," he continued tauntingly, "since he's doing a damned fine impersonation of a carrot right about now..."

"You did this to him, you arrogant prick!" Dean sprang forward, his left fist swinging for McCune's temple but whiffing harmlessly by as the aging MD easily sidestepped Dean's pain-blunted fighting abilities. Spasms shot across Dean's tormented ribs causing his breath to come in stilted hitches. Before he could settle his breathing into a normal rhythm, McCune drove his stubby fist into Dean's right side, igniting a firestorm of blistering pain that drove him to his knees.

McCune wasted no time in following with a brutal kick to Dean's sternum that sprawled him on his stomach several feet down the hallway and left him gasping for air while smudges of black and grey drifted past his eyes. McCune, satisfied that the younger man was no longer a threat, turned his attention towards Sam who still rested against the far wall, having shown no indication that he had seen nor comprehended what had taken place.

Dean's fingers brushed the edge of something cool as he struggled to stay conscious. As his vision cleared, he realized it was one of several long, hollow pipes about two inches in diameter that had fallen from the orthopedic traction cart when Sam had crashed into it. Grasping it tightly, Dean quietly pushed himself into a standing position.

"Hey, dickless," Dean wheezed. "You ever been in traction?" Dr. McCune turned in surprise at the sound of Dean's voice just as the traction bar came crashing into the left side of his head. The force of the blow left the medic slumped on the floor in a daze. Within seconds, Dean was on top of the older man, punch after punch snapping McCune's head back and forth as though he were a life-sized bobble head doll, until he finally sagged limply to the floor.

**snsnsnsnsnsn**

Bobby and Larry had followed the smears of Sam's blood to a hallway not far from the morgue. There, they found Dean, pale, hunched and in obvious pain, standing on wobbling legs over the crumpled form of Dr. McCune.

Bobby moved cautiously between Dean and Sam, aligning himself with Dean's line of sight, not certain if the suffering young man had heard them approaching. Bobby had seen Dean lash out instinctually, even when gravely wounded, if he felt the safety of his younger brother was being threatened. Although Dean appeared close to collapse, Bobby still wasn't keen on being Dean Winchester's punching bag. Anyway, it looked like Dr. McCune had done a fine job of that, himself.

"Dean? You OK?"

Dean turned tired eyes towards him, his voice a raspy whisper. "Am now. Sammy?"

"Doc's got him."

"Something's wrong with him. That bastard did something to him. Larry, you've gotta do something. We've gotta help him." Dean had hardly taken a breath between sentences as his words rushed over each other.

Bobby could see Dean was nearing his limit, both physically and emotionally. "We _are_ helping him, Dean, but we've got to get the two of you out of here first."

"Larry, help me get the boys to the car," Bobby commanded. "I'm gonna drive them back to the Hoover's. They'll be safe there. You get whatever you think we'll need to care for Sam and meet us there as soon as possible."

**To be continued…**

**Secondary A/N: **And in case any of you were wondering…No, the descriptions of Sam's bad trip didn't come from personal experience. Never been high, don't do drugs. It was all just the ramblings of a twisted and sick imagination (mine!) that gets high from pimping the limp Sam.

**About the chapter title: **Ok, I had a really, REALLY tough time deciding on just one song for a chapter title for this one. So I did what every red-blooded, guitarist-worshipping, classic rock-obsessed American girl would do...I used both! "I Can't Drive 55" is a cut from the 1984 album, "VOA", Sammy Hagar's last solo album before joining Van Halen. I used it because Bobby's really gonna be hauling ass (i.e. driving more than 55 mph) to get as far from Hellhole Hospital as possible. "Run like Hell" is from the 1979 Pink Floyd album, "The Wall". Not only does it tie in with the get-away, but the song is about "Pink", who has a hallucination (much like Sam's) that he's this evil, Nazi-type person that turns a concert audience into a mob that's bent on committing hate crimes.


	41. You Drive, I'll Steer

**Disclaimer:** As much as it pains me, I have no claim to the Winchester brothers nor any aspect of the "Supernatural" realm and all standard disclaimers apply.

**A/N:** Ok, folks, it looks like this wild ride is finally coming to its conclusion. I just wanted to take the time to thank all of you wonderful readers and reviewers for coming along on my fantasy spin with the Winchester boys. It was wonderful having such a great bunch out there for my very first Fanfic ever. I've appreciated each and every one of you...and your remarks. I plan to take a hiatus from posting...ah, ah, ah...don't go getting all angsty on me...I said a hiatus from _**posting**,_ not writing. This time of year is extremely busy for me, both at work (major trauma season will soon be in high gear!) and at home (keeping up the farm, training and showing the dogs and the horses) and I feel the only way I can do right by my readers is to completely write, analyze and edit any further stories prior to posting. You guys deserve chapter postings faster than what I've been able to manage lately and fully completing a story prior to posting is the best way I can think of to achieve that goal. Anyway...enough prattling...back to what's important - Sam & Dean!

**The road so far: **Bobby, Larry and Dean have hatched a plan to break Sam out of ICU where he's being held against his will by the sadistic Dr. McCune, a physician bent on running tests on Sam in a misguided attempt to further his career. Unbeknownst to our heroes, Dr. McCune has dosed Sam with a large hit of LSD and filled his head with lies that Dean has died at Sam's own hand. After a final confrontation with Dr. McCune, Dean and Bobby burn rubber getting Sam back to the relative safety of the Hoover farm, all the while completely freaked by the horrible and frightening condition of the young hunter.

* * *

**One Jump Ahead of the Storm**

**Chapter 41: You Drive, I'll Steer**

The drive back to the Hoover's farmhouse had been a silent and desperate dash to put as much distance as they could between Sam and Dr. McCune as quickly as possible. Although no words had passed between them, Bobby's furtive glances in the rearview mirror had more than once locked onto Dean's uncertain eyes; eyes that expressed unvoiced, yet somehow understood, emotions. Fear and helplessness were two emotions Bobby had so rarely seen in the younger hunter that he had found himself unconsciously shuddering at the urgent plea that had wordlessly been laid bare in Dean's apprehensive hazel eyes. _"I'm scared, Bobby. Sammy's not Sammy and I don't know what to do to 'fix' him and that scares the hell out of me. Please tell me Sammy's gonna be OK." _

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

**5:33 AM**

Bobby and Dean had had hopes that the familiar surroundings of the Hoover farmhouse would spark something in Sam and bring him around, but they'd been back for nearly an hour already and nothing had changed. Sitting there watching his younger brother, Dean wasn't sure what was more distressing, the Sam he had encountered hysterically crashing down the hospital corridors or the one that was facing him now; the Sam that appeared wide awake yet failed to respond...to anything. The blank, expressionless appearance of his face was amplified by the large, dark pools of his dilated pupils and driven home by the occasional ribbons of drool that continued to slip, uncontrolled, from Sam's lips. It was almost as if the part of his little brother that made him 'Sam' had died on the inside leaving just the physical outer shell and the sight of it had been killing Dean; had him practically crawling out of his skin with worry.

_"Damn it,"_ Bobby mused silently. _"Where the hell are you, Larry? Nothing with Sam is making any sense, Dean's on the edge, and I'm in over my head, here."_

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

The first twitch of a hand, the first blink that said Sam was aware of anything, _anything_, beyond himself had Dean finding that he was once again able to breathe. A slow but steady realization had begun to fill Sam's eyes and he struggled to focus the tumbling torrent of thoughts that poured from every recess of his mind. Words, letters, sights and noises all formed in Sam's head, melted into one another, then re-fused themselves into a jumble of unintelligible babble that rolled, muffled and slurred, from Sam's dry, cracked lips as he squirmed restlessly on the bed.

Dean had heard the slam of the wooden screen door and the heavy thud-thud of rushed footsteps and breathed a sigh of relief. "Sammy, you're gonna be OK, now. Larry's finally here. He's gonna take care of you, but I won't leave you, I promise. I'm gonna be here the whole time. I won't leave."

Bobby crossed the threshold into the room with Larry not far behind, a large blue canvas bag in one hand, a large manila folder in the other. "How's he doing?"

"I don't know, Larry," Dean admitted as he painfully stood up and stepped slowly away from Sam's bed. "For the last hour he's been staring off into space, not responding to anything. He's starting to come around now, but he's not making any sense and he looks horrible."

"The same could be said about you, too. I'm going to look after Sam," Larry asserted. "I gave Bobby some supplies. He's going to take you down the hallway to the bathroom and get you cleaned up...again...and then you're going to lie down. When I'm done with Sam, I'll come make sure you didn't undo any of my hard work."

Dean bristled at the thought of being taken from his brother once again. He didn't care that Bobby and Larry were people that he could trust; and the same for Gordy and Brenda Hoover. Lord knows, if it hadn't been for all of them, he and Sam never would have survived their stay in this God-forsaken little Hamlet of Hell. What Dean cared about was Sam, and the promise he'd made to him, and the force of his reply left no one questioning that. "No way! I told him I was staying and I am!"

Although Sam was obviously in need of medical care, Dean had been through so much himself that Larry was determined he was going to get the rest and care he needed, as well. Larry had known this was going to be a fight but he was determined to stand strong and matched Dean's tone with one of his own. "He's going to get the care he needs and you are, too! Now, go with Bobby and let me tend to Sam!"

"I don't need anything, Larry! I'm fine! I'm not leaving him! I just got him back!"

"Guys..."

"You are not fine! Look at you! You've been stitched together more times than some kid's rag doll, your ribs are almost certainly broken, and you can't even stand up straight!"

Dean stifled a wince as he stood a little taller. "Give it up, Larry! I'm not leaving unless it's in a body bag!"

"Keep ignoring your own injuries and you just may get your wish!" Larry bellowed.

"GUYS!!"

Larry and Dean turned at Bobby's shout to find that Sam had pulled himself into a seated position on the bed, his knees folded tightly to his chest. His elbows rested heavily on his knees as his arms curled protectively over his head and ears, the long fingers of his hands twisting large clumps of chestnut hair between them as he rocked agitatedly back and forth. Tears streamed down his face as he ranted incoherently. "My fault...did it...evil...died...he died...my knife...I killed him...turned evil..."

Dean returned to Sam's side, sitting gently on the edge of the bed and quietly spoke to his baby brother. "What's your fault, Sammy? Everything's OK, buddy. Come on, look at me," Dean consoled as he gripped Sam's forearms, carefully avoiding the bruised, raw areas on each of Sam's wrists, and tenderly tugged his arms away from his head. Hooking the side of his right index finger under Sam's chin, Dean tilted his brother's head up until he looked him squarely in the face.

Sam stared blankly at Dean for an instant before a look of horrified surprise swept across his face. With a sharp intake of breath, Sam scrambled desperately backwards, knocking the lamp from the bedside table as he spilled from the bed. "No! Leave me alone! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to do it!" The young hunter sobbed pitifully as he struggled to rise from where he'd fallen.

"Jesus, Sammy! Are you OK?" Dean rose from his spot and started around the end of the bed to help his brother, but pulled up short when Sam scrabbled quickly away, terror flashing in his eyes.

Dean once again moved in his brother's direction, the shock of Sam's behavior and his own fatigue showing up in his words and harsh tone. "What the hell's wrong with you?!"

Sam shrank back, his panic-stricken eyes frantically searching for any escape while he pushed as far into the corner of the room as he could. "Stay away from me! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean it! It was an accident! Please, no! I didn't know it was you! I swear, I didn't know it was you." Sam's voice trailed away as his breath hitched in stuttered gasps.

"Sammy, what is it? What the hell are you talking..." Dean's questioning was cut abruptly short as Sam flailed wildly in an attempt to get away from his older sibling and Larry and Bobby descended on Dean, firmly pulling him away from a now clearly irrational Sam.

"What are you doing? Let me go! Something's wrong with him! I've got to help him!" Dean struggled in their grasps, headstrong in his resolve to return to Sam's side.

"Get him out of here, Bobby," Larry hollered as he pushed Dean roughly towards the door.

"No! Don't! Sam!" Dean bucked furiously against Bobby's restraining arms. "Let me go!"

"Come on, Dean. Let's go," Bobby commanded, Dean struggling against him as he wrestled the younger hunter to the door.

"No! Let go of me! Sammy! Sammy!!"

"If you really want to help him," Larry protested disapprovingly, "then you'll get the hell out of here!"

"Why?! What's wrong with him?!"

"You, Dean!," Larry blurted, not realizing the impact of his words until he saw the shocked and wounded expression cross Dean's face. When Larry continued, he softened his words and his tone. "I don't know why, but you're upsetting him. Your being here is making things worse, not better. Now, please...just go so I can take care of him. I'll come talk with you as soon as I can."

Dean wrenched his arm free from Bobby's iron-fisted grip and with a final anxiety-laden glance at his brother who was huddled, trembling in the corner, turned and exited the room.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

**8:09 AM**

It had taken nearly forty minutes before Larry's soothing and quiet demeanor had finally won over the distressed boy's trust and he'd quietly allowed the physician to settle him once again on the bed. Now, two hours later, Larry had been able to review the information in Dr. McCune's folder and the pieces had fallen all together. Confident that Sam was past the worst, and leaving an attentive Brenda to watch over the now peacefully sleeping boy, Larry quietly slipped from the room.

As he descended the steps, Larry wondered just what he was going to say to Dean. Well, not so much _what_ he was going to say as much as how he was going to say it. Dean had a right to know what he'd found out, needed to know, because Sam would most certainly need the support of his older brother in the days ahead. But Dean was as stressed and incendiary as anyone Larry had ever seen and the wrong approach was more than likely going to set off a firestorm of emotion that would do neither boy any good.

"Hey, guys," Larry called out quietly as he entered the cozy farmhouse living room where Bobby, Dean and Gordy sat silently nursing mugs of coffee, each man lost in his private thoughts. Dean still wore the same wounded expression Larry had last seen him with and he knew that Sam's apparent rejection of the older boy was eating away at him.

"How's Sammy?" Dean had scooted to the edge of his seat when he'd seen Larry come in and waited expectantly for news of his brother. "Can I see him?"

"We need to talk first," Larry advised.

Dean's face turned a pallid shade as the blood drained from his face and a whispered, "Oh, God" passed unconsciously from his lips.

"No, no, no...Oh, God, no," Larry gushed out. Geez, he'd only just started and already he was making a mess of things. "No, Sam's doing fine now. It's just...well, there's a few things...some of the..." Larry took a deep breath and blew it out tiredly. He had to handle this just right because Sam was going to need his big brother to be as calm, understanding and strong as he could be. "This isn't going to be easy to hear, but I'll tell you as long as you promise me you won't go flying off the handle. OK? You've got to hear me out and deal with this. Sam's going to have a hard enough time dealing with it himself, so having his big brother going all 'John Rambo' isn't going to help him. He needs your calm, quiet support, OK? You hear what I'm saying?"

Dean simply nodded, his fists clenched tightly together and pressed to his lips, too anxious to trust his voice not to waver.

"From what I can tell, Sam didn't take much in the way of food or fluids in the past few days and he was rather dehydrated. After I got him calmed down, I was able to start an IV for him and I pumped him full of fluids. While the IV was infusing, I had some time to review McCune's notes and the pieces make a hell of a lot more sense now. McCune did a real number on him, Dean."

Bobby saw Dean's jaw clench and his posture stiffen suddenly and he laid a supportive and slightly restraining hand on his shoulder. "But he's OK now." Dean's statement lacked confidence and came out sounding more like a question.

"Dean..." Larry continued, "the first EEG...um, brainwave test...that was done after the seizure he'd had after his surgery was lucky enough to pick up when Sam had one of his visions."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, "the one about Joshua getting killed. That vision saved Joshua's life."

"Well, believe me, the EEG results are like nothing I've ever seen before...and that's all it took for McCune. He was bent on making Sam his own personal lab rat, even having him restrained when he resisted. Once McCune got tired of pumping him full of legal drugs and watching their effects, he went for something a bit more...should I say, hard core. Dean, Sam was tripping on lysergic acid diethylamide when we rescued him."

"LSD," Dean whispered quietly. "I suppose that explains him flipping out on me."

"Not entirely, Dean," Larry cautioned gently. "McCune was pushing him...hard. His notes indicate he intentionally set Sam up for a bad trip hoping the test results would be even more impressive." Larry wrung his hands nervously. "Dean, McCune told Sam that he...that you..." Larry took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "McCune told Sam that you'd died from a stab wound to the chest and Sam, himself, was the one who'd killed you."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

**10:55 AM**

The revelations of the suffering that Sam had endured at McCune's hands had impacted Dean incredibly hard. Both Bobby and Larry had seen Dean's unbridled rage bubbling just under the surface and wondered just how long the young man could contain it. Bobby knew from past experience the explosive power of Dean's bottled emotions. The images of Dean pummeling the trunk of his beloved Impala with an iron rod after the death of their father were still so fresh in Bobby's mind that he warily observed Dean from across the room for any indications that his anger was reaching the point of critical mass, the point where an eruption of visceral rage was imminent.

Bobby was having a hard time reading Dean and it was really starting to spook him. "You doing OK, boy?"

"Yeah," Dean acquiesced with a sigh. "Don't get me wrong, I'd love to open up a whole can of Winchester-style whoop-ass on that bastard McCune, but Sammy needs me more."

"I see you took our little talk to heart," Larry called out from where he was leaning casually against the doorframe. "That's good, because Sam's awake. I've talked with him a little and I think he's ready to see you now."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

Dean had stood outside Sam's door gathering himself, putting on a face of confident cool that he didn't feel inside, before knocking lightly on the bedroom door.

A small, distant voice Dean hardly recognized as Sam's called out from behind the door. "Come in."

Dean cautiously pushed the door open and quietly stepped inside. Sam sat upright in bed, his back resting against the heavy oak headboard. His flushed and sweaty appearance of earlier had given way to a rather pasty and sickly appearance. In the past, Dean had always marveled how Sam seemed to always look through eyes that shone with a resolve to find goodness and light in everyone and everything around him. Now, Dean saw eyes that only brimmed with unshed tears; a dark sadness replacing the hopeful optimism usually found there.

Dean settled softly on the bed next to his younger brother, unsure what to do or say. Sam stared silently at his hands while he fidgeted with the hem of the quilt Brenda had spread out on his bed. Tense, noiseless moments passed as Dean weighed his next move. Never before had he felt the need to pull back from Sam, to be distant and detached. Yes, Dean mused, he often tried to pull back and avoid it when Sam got into one of his particularly emo, "chick-flick" moods, but it was _he_ that needed that distance, not Sam. But recently, Dean's presence had upset his little brother and Dean wasn't certain how much brotherly bonding Sam could handle just yet. Dean wanted desperately to be there for his baby brother, but he didn't want to push too soon and make matters worse. _Damn you, McCune_, Dean cursed silently, _I ever run into you again, you slimly piece of shit, I will kill you without a guilty thought._

The boys sat in silence for several more minutes before Sam lifted his head, his doleful eyes regarding his brother with an expression of poignant regret. Sam took a breath and appeared as though he were going to say something when he suddenly stopped and looked away, his eyes squinted closed and his face twisting in an attempt to hold back his surging emotions. Pushing back his emotions, Sam whispered, "I thought I'd...," before the pain and sadness of his still vivid memories once again had him choking back tears.

"I know, Sam," Dean murmured quietly, "I know. But that wasn't real. I'm here and I'm OK."

Dean reached out and tentatively laid his hand on Sam's forearm, uncertain what reaction his touch would illicit. Sam drew back and quickly gathered Dean into his arms, pulling him closely to his chest. No longer able to hold back, his emotions crashing down around him, Sam broke down and wept in Dean's arms.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

**Hoover farmhouse**

**Two days later**

**09:20 AM**

"Here, let me help you with that," Larry offered as Dean struggled his way into his button-down shirt.

"Nah, I'm good. Thanks." The involuntary wince that crossed Dean's face as his ribs indignantly protested his movements somehow making his assurances particularly less than convincing.

"Look, Dean, I get the whole 'gotta-be-strong, don't-admit-any-weakness' routine, I really do. Remember, I was a hunter once, too, _and_ I knew your old man. But that doesn't change the fact that the both of you have been through a lot and you need to take it easy, take care of yourselves."

"I'll take it easy when Sammy and I are as far away from McCune as we can get," Dean growled.

"I don't think you'll have to worry about McCune any time soon," Larry stated with a wry smile. "Let's just say a few well-placed sheets of leftover LSD blotters happened to find their way into McCune's pockets...and bloodstream."

"So that's what took you so long getting here!" Bobby's eyes twinkled with vengeful delight.

"It seems," Larry continued conspiratorially, "McCune was found slumped, unconscious and bloody, in a hospital corridor amid a bunch of overturned supply carts. An exam and drug-screen confirmed that the good doctor was high on LSD at the time. Since he was on duty, the hospital administration wasn't too happy and suspended him from practicing. The State Police are investigating him and it's almost a certainty that the State Board will yank his medical license faster than you can say 'poltergeist'.

"Even still," Dean quipped, "I would have felt better if you and Bobby would have let me go back to salt and burn the bastard."

Larry and Bobby laughed knowingly, realizing had they given Dean even the smallest hint of approval, that he would surely have done just that. "By the way," Larry continued. "I've taken the liberty of making some arrangements for the two of you, with Bobby's OK, of course, for whenever you hit the road again."

Dean's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What do you mean you 'made arrangements'?"

"Being on the road, in a strange town, unfamiliar with the hospitals and emergency medical services is not the time for either of you boys to have a serious complication, so I've contacted a friend of mine in Nebraska. Steve's a good guy, real open-minded. Better yet, he's a doctor with a 'no questions asked' sort of attitude."

Dean snatched the small slip of paper from Larry's outstretched fingers and peered intently down at it. "King? You're serious? You're sending us to hook up with some doctor named Stephen King?! And this is supposed to be making me feel more comfortable, how?"

Larry and Bobby chuckled heartily. After everything that had gone on it wasn't hard to see where the man's name would freak Dean out a bit. Larry placed a comforting hand on Dean's shoulder. "Steve gets that reaction quite a bit, actually."

"Who'd have thought it," Dean barked sarcastically.

"...but, he has connections with some bar or something, a place called Harvelle's Roadhouse, I think. It's run by some mother-daughter duo but the word is that they're like 'Hunters Central' and can set you up with lodging while Steve looks after you."

"I don't know, Larry," Dean hedged. "Can't say I'm ready to trust anyone right now."

Sam silently shook his head in agreement. Although he'd interacted with everyone and engaged in conversation since coming down from the LSD, he had been quieter and more withdrawn than usual, a fact that had Dean watching his every move, his every expression, and analyzing his every word. Sam hadn't spoken much at all, and even less about what McCune had done to him, and Dean was in full big brother mode making sure Sam was dealing with it.

"Too bad, Dean," Bobby asserted. "The arrangements are made and Steve's to call if you two don't show up within a reasonable time of leaving here. Doc, here," Bobby said as he nodded towards Larry, "says your busted ribs put you at greater risk for developing pneumonia. I've nursed your sorry ass through that before. It wasn't pretty and I'm not about to do it again."

"Even just the fact that you've had pneumonia before increases your risk, Dean," Larry explained. "Anyway, somebody's going to need to tend to Sam's broken wrist and make sure his spleen is healed enough before you head back into the game."

Dean looked apprehensively at his younger brother trying unsuccessfully to read Sam's thoughts from his impassive expression.

"I don't know, Larry," Dean objected. " I really don't think a bunch of new people's the right thing right now." He'd intentionally left off the "_for Sammy"_ but Larry and Bobby could sense it.

Before Dean could protest any further, Sam interrupted in the same small, hushed tone he'd adopted since his ordeal. "I'll go."

Dean couldn't get over how childlike Sam's voice sounded amidst the earnest quibbling of he, Larry and Bobby. "What did you say?"

Sam stared absently at his boots, not even looking up as he repeated himself. "I said I'll go. We can't stay here anymore. I found this during breakfast." Sam held out a copy of the local newspaper. "_**Police Seek Men in Animal Preserve Incident**_" was emblazoned in large, black letters across the top of the Ida County Herald-Tribune.

Dean grabbed the paper from his younger brother and began reading aloud. " 'Police seek to question three men in regards to a break in that occurred at the veterinary facilities of the Los Barba Wildlife Refuge last week. Refuge owner, Phil Collins,'...you've got to be kidding me. Phil Collins?" Dean asked incredulously before going on. " 'Refuge owner, Phil Collins, told police that three men entered the offices of the refuge dressed in dark suits and identified themselves as agents from the Exotic Animals Division of the U.S. Department of Agriculture. Mr. Collins was told the three 'agents' were there investigating reports of a lioness that had escaped from a traveling circus, but later investigation found no circuses or other shows in or around the area that were missing any animals. A similar inquiry to the U. S. Department of Agriculture failed to turn up any agents by the names of Crosby, Stills or Nash, the names given to Mr. Collins at the time the three gained entry to the refuge. To date, all refuge animals are accounted for."

"Mr. Collins reports the veterinary clinic at the rear of the preserve had been broken into, presumably in a search for Ketamine, a common veterinary anesthetic often sold illicitly on the street. Inventory of the clinic is still on-going but officials acknowledge no drugs or other equipment of street value have been found missing to this point. A late model Toyota pick-up was stolen from the rear of the clinic but was later recovered at a near-by hospital. Indications at the scene are that at least one of the perpetrators was injured. In an attempt to identify the individuals, a search of hospital records is currently underway."

"If anyone has any information that could assist police in their investigation, they're requested to call the Ida County Sheriff's office at..."

"I'll meet you in the car, Dean," Sam whispered and strode sadly out the front door without saying 'goodbye' to Bobby, the slam of the screen door punctuating the finality of the situation.

Dean stared after his melancholy younger brother and breathed out a sigh. As usual, it seemed like the Winchester brothers just couldn't get a break. As he brushed past Larry on his way to retrieve his duffel, the English doctor seized Dean's upper arm emphatically. "Before you go...you need to walk a fine line with Sam for awhile. Sam's going to need some space, space where he won't have to live up to certain expectations. But he's also going to need support from you. He needs time that he can work through everything that's happened...the injuries, McCune, the drugs."

"Got it, doc. I should let 'Timothy Leary' deal with things in his own time. Be there for him, but don't push. No problem."

"Dean, I'm serious," Larry scolded.

Hazel eyes searched Larry's face and the sudden gravity of the doctor's expression twisted a knot into Dean's guts.

"I know it was only one hit, but it was a very significant dose for someone that's never used before and acid's nothing to take lightly. LSD's known for causing repeated effects, flashbacks, weeks or months after the fact and often just as vivid as the initial trip. A bad trip like Sam's seems to increase the likelihood of flashbacks. And we haven't even factored in Sam's 'gift'. It's just that we have no real idea how the LSD's going to impact Sam in the future. You need to keep an eye out for him. You ever need anything, you know where I am. OK?"

Dean gathered Larry up in a loose man-hug, clapped him heartily on the back and then did the same with Bobby. "I'll call you when we get to Nebraska."

Bobby nodded quickly, not trusting his voice not to crack and warble. Although he'd never had children of his own, Bobby supposed this is what it felt like when they grew and moved away. As Dean turned and walked through the front door, Bobby and Larry were left staring after him.

"You boys take care of yourselves," Bobby said to no one in particular as the throaty growl of the classic Impala slowly dissipated into the distance.

**END.**

* * *

**About the chapter title:** "You Drive, I'll Steer" is a song from Cheap Trick's 1980 album, "Busted", one of their somewhat less successful albums. 

**A/N:** For those of you too young to get the reference to Timothy Leary. Dr. Leary (1920-1996) was a psychologist and 1960's counterculture icon that promoted the use of LSD for both "therapeutic" and "spiritual" benefits. He coined the particularly famous 1960's phrase, "Turn on, tune in, drop out."

Also, as you can see by the ending I've chosen, we're left wide open for a potential sequel...maybe something like a "Dean gets pneumonia" sequel or a "Sammy has a wicked flashback" sequel, or even possibly a "Dr. McCune gets out of jail and is bent on revenge" sequel. I'm sure there are other sequel ideas, as well, that I've yet to think of. Reader interest in any of these scenarios, or others that you may suggest, will figure largely in whether I write a sequel, or not. If you'd like to see a sequel, you'll have to let me know what you think/want. I would like to tackle another plot idea I have first, though, before doing any sequels.


End file.
